


Liberty Avenue Stylite

by dustedoffanoldie, Tagsit



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2019-08-19 09:59:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 170,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16532357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustedoffanoldie/pseuds/dustedoffanoldie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tagsit/pseuds/Tagsit
Summary: A curious art history student disturbs a lonely recluse holed up in an historic building in downtown Pittsburgh's 'Golden Triangle'. Together they investigate the mystery behind the building and in the process unearth evidence of a long-dead, illicit love affair. Will that ancient romance help kindle a modern one for our history sleuths at the same time?STORY IS NOW COMPLETE - HAPPY READING!





	1. Another Lonely Night

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go again, folks. Enjoy! TAG & Sally

  
  


Chapter 1 - Another Lonely Night. 

  
  


Some people called it the ‘Triangle Building’. That’s the name that was written on the doors to the lobby on the street level. Well, I assumed that was what was written there - several of the letters had been scratched off so now it only reads, ‘R ANGLE BUILDING’, but you know. 

  
  


If you looked it up in the history books, though, the official name of the building is ‘The Flatiron Building’. When I first read that I had to go research to find out what a flatiron was because, being a millenial and all, I had no clue what that meant. Apparently, a flatiron was an old-fashioned clothing iron - you know, the kind you used to get wrinkles out of fabric back before they’d invented dry cleaners - and it was usually shaped like a triangle. They were generally made of iron or something else really heavy. You’d put them on top of your big old wood burning stove and let them heat up until they were piping hot and then hoist them onto an ironing board where you’d drape your shirts. Then you’d rub them across the clothing, steaming out the wrinkles, making sure not to let it sit in any one place for too long or it would burn through the fabric. Anyway, buildings that were constructed on triangular shaped plots of land back in the nineteenth century came to be known as ‘Flatiron Buildings’ because of the resemblance to these unwieldy appliances. I guess I could see it if I squinted up at the building across the street and imagined a clunky wooden handle stretched across the roof. Maybe.

  
  


So, at one time there were tons of ‘Flatiron Buildings’ around. Mostly because the streets didn’t always go in straight lines and there were lots of strange shaped plots of land that were built on, including triangular plots. But over time, city planners became better at plotting out streets and went with square grids, so the triangular buildings disappeared. There were still a few around. The most famous, of course, being the Flatiron Building in New York City, which was one of the first modern ‘skyscrapers’. But in my humble opinion, Pittsburgh’s Flatiron far outstriped the one in the Big Apple. 

  
  


For one thing, our Triangle building is a good twenty years older than theirs. And while it isn’t as tall or as well-preserved, it has a lot more character. Every time I came by here to look at the building, I fell more in love with it. There was so much detail put into every stone of the building. The cornices were all hand carved and the brickwork was done so meticulously. There were elaborate ironwork flourishes on the outside, like the big gas lamps by each door and the downspouts. It just looked like a building that had a hundred stories to tell. If only I spoke whatever language the stories were written in.

 

Okay, so maybe I was over romanticizing a stupid building. Daphne used to tell me all the time that I’m a huge drama queen, and I suppose she’s right. But of all the buildings in the city of Pittsburgh - which, by the way, is chock full of magnificent architecture pretty much everywhere you look - this was the one building that had called out to me when I was directed to find a subject for my Art & Architecture class at the Art Institute of Pittsburgh. 

 

So I was sitting on the bench across Liberty Avenue from the Flatiron Building, drawing its facade for the two hundredth time, trying to capture whatever quintessential characteristic made up the building that had captured my imagination to the exclusion of almost everything else for the prior two months. By that point I had already drawn it from about every angle I possibly could. I remember feeling like I could draw the building in my sleep, I’d done it so many times. But it still seemed like I was missing something. Something that could make the image of a building made of charcoal on paper come alive.

 

If only I could have got inside. I was sure that there was so much more inside that building that needed to be discovered. Details and minutiae that would have answered all the questions I had about this building. I mean, I had already researched just about everything I could about the building, the architectural style it was built in, and even the architect himself - Andrew Peebles - but it just seemed like there was more there. There was a part of the story that I didn’t know yet. And if I could have found that part of the story, then I would be able to not only ace my end of term project, but I would have somehow felt justified in my obsession. 

 

Yeah, Daphne was probably right. I really was a total nutcase. But that’s why she loves me. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. 

 

So there I was, just doodling really, drawing the western point of the triangle - the one made by the intersection of Liberty Avenue and Smithfield Street - not even paying any attention to the images that were coming out of my pencil. The weather was starting to turn colder and it looked like it might rain so I pulled my jacket closer around me but I didn’t rush off. I was done with classes for the day and I didn’t really have anywhere else I had to be, so I figured I’d just do one more sketch before catching the bus back to the University District where I shared an apartment with Daphne. My mind wasn’t really on my drawing though since, like I said, I could almost draw that building in my sleep. 

 

Which is why, when I looked down at my sketchpad, I was actually quite surprised to find that I’d drawn something different that time. The building itself had remained as immutable as the stone it was built from, but there was a new detail there that had never arisen before. I quickly looked up at the building across from me, searching to see if the picture I’d drawn truly did match the reality of the building or not, only to be left wondering. All the windows of the mostly vacant building were as empty and blank as they always were. But that’s not what my sketch had shown. 

 

In that one sketch there was a face looking out the big end window on the third floor. 

 

I returned my attention to the drawing, examining this mysterious face that I didn’t actually remember seeing. It was a face that looked haunted. Which is an odd thing to say, because I had never felt that the building itself was haunted. If anything, that building had always seemed welcoming and warm to me, despite the fact that it appeared to be unoccupied. In my mind I could see the past denizens filling the rooms and walking the halls, throwing parties, doing whatever work their jobs required, living their lives. But if the building wasn’t haunted, this face certainly was. 

 

The face was that of a man. It was difficult to tell, since I’d drawn the image from a distance and the details I’d caught were few, but he looked to be older. I’d decorated the face with a big bushy beard and clunky, horn-rimmed glasses that further obscured most of the facial features. But there was just something about that face - there was a sense of longing there - maybe it was in the lines around the eyes or the twist of the mouth, I didn’t know which, even though I had drawn it. 

 

That was all I could see of the man, though. Either I hadn’t caught the rest of him or his body had been obscured by the darkness of the room behind him, so that all I got was that disembodied face. Or maybe he really was a fucking ghost. Who knew, right? 

 

I was just about to get up, march across the street and start banging on the door to see if a real live person would answer, thus proving to me that I hadn’t simply imagined the face in the window, when I felt the first raindrops hitting my face. That big grey cloud that had been threatening all afternoon had moved up faster than I had expected. It looked like it was going to start pouring. A glance at the clock on my phone showed me that the next #66 bus was due in only three minutes. If I didn’t make that bus, the there wasn’t another one for a half hour and I did NOT want to stand in the rain for thirty minutes waiting on it. Making a quick decision, I opted for dry clothing over the pursuit of my mystery man, and started off in a sprint down the block towards the bus stop. 

 

The face in the window would have to wait for another day.

  
  


On my way into the apartment I checked my mail again, hoping against hope I’d finally get a response from the LLC that owned the Flatiron building, but there wasn’t anything. I’d actually gone to the trouble of digging through the Allegheny County property tax records to find the name of the registered owners of the lot. The County said the property had been owned by a Donal Byrne for several decades but was apparently purchased by a vaguely named corporation about ten years earlier. The Flatiron Consortium, LLC was one of those faceless, soulless, holding company type organizations that had only a PO box for an address and no other way to contact them. But, undaunted, I had sent them a letter early on, asking for whatever information they might be willing to give me to help me in my research for this school project. I’d also asked to be allowed access to the interior of the building, hoping to see if any of the architectural details of the time - 1880s Pittsburgh - might still be evident inside. So far, though, they hadn’t answered and I was running out of time before my project was due.

 

I’d been slaving away on the written report that needed to accompany the rest of the presentation - which was NOT my favorite part of the project - for about an hour before Daphne came in from her shift as a patient escort at the Magee-Women’s Hospital. My roommate and best friend was a paragon of productivity. I still don’t know how she did it: she worked forty hours a week and still managed to take almost a full course load of classes at the University of Pittsburgh. She had wanted to be a doctor since she was five. I can vouch for that personally, as I still remember her making me pretend to be her patient as she played doctor on me by wrapping my entire head in toilet paper to bandage me. And, no, we had never ‘played doctor’ any other way, but there was almost nothing besides that which we hadn’t done together in the thirteen years we’d known each other. She was my best friend, my closest confidante, my primary emotional support system, and the only person who’d put up with me. I literally don’t know what I would have done without her over the years. 

 

“Hey, Justin. Haven’t you finished that report yet?” she commented as she peeked over my shoulder in the process of hugging me hello. “Sheesh. You’d think you were working on the Gettysburg Address judging by all the effort you’re putting into this project. I didn’t think you were even that into architecture.”

 

“I’m not. Well, not really,” I replied, one-handedly hugging her back over my shoulder. “I mean, I’ve always liked architecture but it’s not creative enough for me to do as a career. There’s too many rules involved: like making sure the building won’t fall over and shit. If I were doing it, I’d probably WANT to make buildings that leaned every which way, had impossible angles and that you couldn’t ever decorate because there was too much ‘useless’ space.” 

 

“Yeah, I guess Picasso really wouldn’t be the best person to hire to design your new building,” Daphne agreed with him as she moved off to grab some food from the fridge. “Is that why you’re so enraptured by this building? Because it does lean a little bit, you know, and it has all those wonky angles.”

 

“Hey, stop ragging on my building. It does NOT lean. It’s just that all the other buildings around it were built crooked,” I argued, causing both of us to break into giggles. 

 

“Well, make sure you put that in your report then,” Daph counselled, “since by this point you must have written everything else there is to know about that pile of rocks.”

 

“Ha, ha, ha,” I pretended to laugh at my friend’s ongoing critique. “I’m almost done with the report, actually. I just wanted to change a few things and do some editing.” I got quiet as I typed away at the computer, revising my manuscript as I went, only to groan and push away from the desk in frustration after only a few more minutes. “Unfortunately, the one big thing I’m not sure about, and which will definitely affect my grade from this particular professor, is exactly what type of architecture my building represents. I just can’t pin it down. It’s got little bits of everything in it, if you ask me. I guess, if I had to pick, I’d say it was Romanesque Revival. But it’s also got elements of Beaux Arts and maybe even some precursor leanings towards Art Deco. I just don’t think it can be classified as one or the other. My professor probably won’t be happy with that answer though, and it’s driving me crazy trying to figure out what to write on that MAJORLY important point.”

 

“I say you make up your own term and call it . . . Nineteenth Century Triangular Chic . . . and just be done with it,” Daphne offered unhelpfully.

 

I threw a pencil at the annoying girl to shut her up. She retaliated by throwing a piece of the popcorn she’d been munching on back at me. Before you knew it, the fight had morphed into an all out pillow fight interspersed with way too much giggling. When the hilarity had finally petered out we were lying on the floor in a panting heap but we both felt much better.

 

“I think I saw a ghost today,” I said, breaking the companionable silence.

 

“Really? That’s kinda cool. Where?”

 

“In my building. I was sitting on the bench across the street next to that little head shop, you know, where I usually sit while I sketch. I wasn’t even really paying attention to what I was doing. But when I looked down at my sketchpad, I realized I’d drawn a face in one of the windows. It wasn’t there when I looked up again, but I don’t think I just made it up. I think it was there and then . . . it wasn’t.”

 

“Creepy. Was it, like, all skeletal and dripping blood or something like that?”

 

“No. He just looked sad and lost. I think he’s lonely.”

 

Daphne slapped the back of her hand against my stomach and laughed. “Leave it to you to romanticize a haunting, Jus. You’re hopeless. We really, really, REALLY need to find you a boyfriend. Stat! Or else you’re going to die of an overactive romantic entanglement with your right hand.”

 

“Hey, at least Rosy Palm always puts out and I don’t have to buy him breakfast the next morning,” I countered with a snarky grin. 

 

“Yuck! TMI times a hundred thousand, Jus!” Daphne complained as she leveraged herself up from the floor. “And that’s my cue to leave you to your wicked ways. I do NOT want to have to witness that much patheticness.”

 

I huffed a snort of laughter. “You’re not fooling anyone, Daph. We both know you’d love to watch me jerk off. Cuz you’re kinky like that and always have been.”

 

“Hush you! I have to go to class in a half hour and I do NOT need to be thinking about you jerking off. I have to be thinking about the muscles in the cardiac system. So please stop teasing me.”

 

“You’re no fun at all anymore, Daph,” I complained as my roommate deserted me to go take a shower and get ready for class. “Fine, just abandon me to my homework. See if I care. I can do this without you. I really can . . . I just don’t WANT to, is all . . .” I complained as I was forced to go back to my computer and finish the written report I’d been working on.

  
  


I was tired of tossing and turning. I’d finally finished the written report for my project - well, I’d done as much as I thought I could and consoled myself that it was as good as it would get - but even after I’d closed up my computer and gone to bed, I just couldn’t stop thinking about my building and that crazy, haunted face. I switched the light back on and pulled my sketchbook out, flipping to the page where I’d drawn that afternoon’s version of the building. There was that face again. It was somehow compelling. So compelling. I felt like I couldn’t look away from the eyes. They were calling to me. 

 

“Argh! I can’t believe I’m being haunted by a fucking face in a building. This shit doesn’t happen to real people, does it? Go away already,” I ordered the face, which completely ignored me and just continued to stare at me from out of the paper of my sketchpad. “You know you’re really annoying right?” The enigmatic face didn’t answer, of course. “Fine. I’m going to figure this shit out once and for all!” 

 

I threw off the covers and crawled out of bed. It was only about eleven and the busses didn’t stop until one so I could still make it back to downtown. How I’d make it back was more problematic, but I chose not to dwell on that issue for the time being. I pulled on a pair of old jeans, a baggy sweatshirt and a holey pair of trainers. My trusty messenger bag with my sketchpad was already waiting by the front door. Since Daph wasn’t home from the library yet, I left the light on when I locked the door behind me. And then I was off.

 

The bus was practically empty that time of night and very few people were waiting at any of the stops, so the trip downtown took less than no time. I hopped off at the last stop on Liberty Avenue and walked the five or so blocks east till I came to the 7th Avenue cross street and my favorite building. The street was well lit even though most of the buildings were dark. It was almost midnight on a weekday, so there weren’t a lot of people around and I had pretty much the entire block to myself. I wiped off the seat of my usual bench, glad it was no longer raining at least, and then made myself comfortable. 

 

And then I just sat there, doing absolutely nothing, just looking up at the black windows and wondering what was inside. 

 

From where I was sitting, all I could see was the pointiest end of the triangle - the end where the defunct Indian Food place had been. Behind that there was the door to the main building lobby, which was always dimly lit up even though I’d never seen anyone go in or out of the doors. I’d stuck my face up against the glass and looked inside many times, but all you saw was a narrow hallway with the door to what I assumed was the main stairwell on the right and another door to the back of the Indian place on the left, all of which existed in that perpetually flickering dimness of the one barely working fluorescent bulb. It all looked just like it always did. It looked empty and silent.

  
  


Or did it? 

 

I scanned across the northern face of the building - the long hypotenuse of the triangle that abutted on Liberty Avenue itself - and thought that maybe I could detect the merest glimmer of a glow coming from the three windows in the center on the top floor. I got up from my bench and walked down the street a bit, coming to a halt standing directly across from the suspect windows. It was really difficult to tell, because those three windows seemed to be covered - which in itself was odd since none of the other windows seemed to have curtains - but maybe there was a hint of light coming from behind them. Maybe. It was a murky, dim light, which was only distinguishable by being slightly less black than the darkness of the other windows. It was the kind of light that you almost didn’t see if you looked at it directly, but when you turned your head to the side and looked at something else, you could detect with your peripheral vision. 

 

Or maybe I was just imagining things I wanted to see.

  
  


After standing there staring at the suspect windows for fuck knew how long, I finally realized I was totally pathetic and needed to have my head examined. What the hell was I doing out here in the middle of the night looking at an empty building? Even if there was some light in one of the upper windows, it didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean there was a human in there. It could just be a light left on by the owners like the one in the lobby. Was I really going to stand there all night waiting for something to happen like a total moron?

 

Of course, the moment I made the decision to stop being an idiot and go home, that’s when it happened. That’s when the curtain that was obscuring the centermost of the three glowing windows in the top floor, moved the slightest bit and a let out a flash of brightness that sliced through the night. I only caught the motion from the corner of my eye right as I was about to turn away, so I didn’t see it clearly, but I thought I might have even caught a glimpse of the hand that had nudged aside the curtain at that moment. A hand that was attached to a lonely haunted face, maybe?

 

When I looked directly up at the windows again, there was once more nothing at all to see. No real light, no hand, no face. Nothing. The building looked as vacant as it always had. Nothing to see here, folks, move along.

 

I sighed and shook my head. “I’ll figure you out yet,” I declared quietly to my own private ghost. 

 

Smiling at myself and my romantic fantasies, I reached up to wave at the invisible figure behind the curtain before setting my steps to trudge back down the hill towards the bus stop. If I was lucky, I’d make the last bus back to Squirrel Hill. If not, I had a long walk ahead of me. But at least I’d have a lot to think about while I was walking. 

 

********  
  


[ Another Lonely Night by Adam Lambert ](https://youtu.be/JT_xnNh5wbE) .

 

Story link: [Stylite - Working Copy](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1hl0vIEjauqe5pSButo774ltK9AiyrcBFWpTBdr_DGtU/edit?usp=sharing).


	2. Fade To Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Justin's obsession with HIS building continues. Enjoy! TAG & Sally

  
  


Chapter 2 - Fade To Black.

  
  


I was furiously typing away at my laptop about a week later when Daph came in from another late night at school. 

 

My project concept was to create a multi-medium collage incorporating computer manipulated photos of the building, historical pictures of the building that I’d unearthed through my research, and other photos and found objects that related to the building either from history or the present, all of which would be added to my own original painted depiction of the building done in acrylics. The canvas I planned to use for this unprecedented melange was going to be huge - 4x5 feet - and even then I wasn’t sure it would be big enough to accommodate all I wanted to portray for this piece. It was probably the most ambitious work I’d ever attempted. And it was imperative that I get all the elements ready in advance and have my concept schematic worked out to the most minute detail before I started or it would end up a mess. Which is why I was still up at almost midnight, trying to get the picture of Architect Andrew Peebles that I’d downloaded off the internet to come out just right, before I printed it out. 

 

“Is it just me or do all the men from the 1880s look totally gay?” Daphne asked me as she walked past me, giving Mr. Peebles an apprising glance. “I think it’s the hair. The way they all parted their hair right down the middle like that and then slicked it back. It’s totally gay. Not to mention that Freddie Mercury mustache thing he has going there.”

  
  


“Fuck you, Daph,” I complained, breaking into laughter at my unconventional friend’s assessment. Of course, after she’d said that, I couldn’t help but see it too. “Yeah, it’s definitely the hair. Even I’m not THAT gay.”

 

We both broke out laughing because, yeah, I really AM that gay. Not that I think I’m overly fem or anything. I probably could pass as straight if I tried, but I’d just never felt like bothering. It was clear to me and all those around me from a very early age that I was as queer as a three dollar bill. I was the the ‘sensitive’ kid who hated sports and instead preferred to draw or paint or read a book. I have no idea how my parents managed to be surprised when I finally came out to them my senior year of high school - hadn’t it been obvious to everyone by then? My mother actually handled it pretty well after she adjusted to the idea, but my dad had been another matter. He threw a total hissy fit and refused to accept it or me. So it really wasn’t much of a surprise that my parents ended up splitting less than a year later. I felt bad for my mother, because her whole life had changed, but frankly I was glad I no longer have to deal with my father. And it also meant that I didn’t have to even attempt to seem anything other than my fabulous gay self anymore, because there was nobody that I associated with who cared anymore.

 

I sat back in my chair, nibbling on my thumbnail and looking at the picture of Peebles that I’d been trying to sharpen with only moderate success. I’d already come to the conclusion that working with historical pictures was a pain in the ass, but this one was worse than most. It was grainy and had odd shadows in it no matter what I did. Oh well, it was what it was and if I still wanted to use it in my work, I would just have to make do. 

 

“So who is the dweeb anyway,” Daphne asked, pointing with a cheese puff at the picture. 

 

“This is the infamous Andrew Peebles, one of the preeminent architects of 1880s Pittsburgh,” I elucidated for my less knowledgeable roommate. “He not only designed and built my building, but also The St. Peter Roman Catholic Church, the  First Lutheran Church, the Hotel Liberty, and he even Supervised the interior decorating of the Henry Clay Frick residence.”

 

“Sound like he was a busy guy,” Daph summed it up in her own way. “I still think he was probably gay.”

 

“You think everyone is gay, Daph.”

 

“And I’m right most of the time too.” 

 

Daph started to laugh maniacally and I felt a pencil run down the center of my head, her fingers playing with my hair. It took me a minute to realize what she was doing. I tried to reach up to stop her, but she batted my hands away.

 

“Stop. You look dashingly . . . gay,” she continued to giggle as I pushed her hands away, running my fingers over my head to rearrange my hair the correct way and get rid of the ridiculous part she’d given me.

 

“Well, in this case, you might actually be right about Peebles - but not because his hair looks gay,” I informed her, spouting my hard won research knowledge. “Peebles was a lifelong bachelor. He never married and the only info I could find on him said that he lived with his ‘partner’ - and I’m guessing they were referring to his business partner here, or at least that’s how it sounded - James Madison Balph, for several years. I mean, who knows, right?”

 

“Totally gay!” Daphne reiterated, mouth so full of cheese puffs that I could barely understand her. 

 

“Yeah. Maybe,” I had to agree with her on this one. “But the really weird thing is that I can’t find anything he did after he designed the Flatiron Building. He was really prolific from around the time right after the Civil War through the end of the 1880’s and then . . . nothing. It’s like he just disappeared. He eventually moved to Atlantic City around the end of World War One and that’s all I found on him. Then he died suddenly in 1919. It’s kinda mysterious, don’t you think?”

 

“Maybe he’s your ghost. Maybe he had some deep dark secret that was discovered and which ruined his life. Or he had a horribly disfiguring accident and could never go out in public again,” Daphne hypothesized. “OR maybe he was outed and once everyone found out he was gay they ostracized him, and his lover turned his back on him out of shame, so he was forced to move away and he died a lonely outcast and now haunts his last and greatest creation, the place where his love died. Ooh, or maybe . . . wait, no. I’ve already used up all of my good ideas.”

 

And she called ME a drama queen?

 

“Or, maybe, he was just old and retired and then died of the Spanish Flu in 1919 and that’s all,” I countered, dowsing her fantasies with a bucket of reality. 

 

“You’re no fun.”

 

“I’m LOTS of fun. I’m just not totally delusional is all,” I smirked back at her before returning to my work. “And I’m going to be in deep shit if I don’t get all these pictures touched up and ready to print tomorrow so I can start painting already. So, take your icky orange fingers and your cheese puffs and go bother someone else’s hair, please.”

 

I couldn’t quite tell what Daph said in reply, mostly because the cheese puffs muffled her words, but I think there was something about HER not being the delusional one. I love Daphne. Even if she does get fake orange cheese gunk in my hair on occasion. 

  
  


The next afternoon I left school with all my photos printed out and securely stowed in a file folder in my bag. I was actually pretty happy with how they’d all turned out, even the grainy one of Peebles, and I was eager to start crafting my masterpiece. I waved as I passed by a group of other students who were just coming in as I was leaving. Too late I realized that, hiding among the larger group of people that I did get along with, was the one person at TAIP that I really didn’t want to talk to. 

 

Ethan Gold. 

  
  


Ethan didn’t really go to the Institute. He attended a nearby music academy and fancied himself the next Mozart or something. But he was always hanging around our school anyway. He said he liked to ‘patronize the other arts’. That’s actually how he said it, too. Like he was some grand Medieval Lord or something. Personally, I found him totally pompous and endlessly annoying, but I’d made the mistake of hooking up with him once and now I just couldn’t get rid of him. I blame it all on the Strawberry Margaritas at Sean Carter’s party Freshman year. Those things get me every time. They sneak up on you, you know? 

 

Anyway, I knew it was a mistake the minute I woke up and found myself in bed with this skinny, greasy-haired, wannabe that I didn’t even remember picking up the night before. I would have had to be totally wasted to go home with Ethan, too, because he soooo wasn’t my type. Of course, I hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings or anything, so I tried to be nice to him. I even accepted his invitation to go out with him a second time, but after I was bored to tears listening to a violin performance that caused my teeth to ache, I turned down all subsequent invites. That hadn’t stopped Ethan the Ever Hopeful, though. You couldn’t fault him for his persistence, at least. 

 

“Justin. Justin! Wait up a sec,” Ethan called out to me as he sprinted to catch me before I could duck around the corner and effectuate my escape.

 

I sighed and rolled my eyes and cursed the fact that I loved margaritas so much, but my country club upbringing just wouldn’t let me be outright rude to someone’s face so I had to stop and wait for my stalker to catch up. “Hey, Ethan. I can’t really hang around and chat right now. I’m working on my end of term project for Art & Architecture and I’m a little behind already, so I’ve got to book,” I blatantly lied. 

 

“That sucks,” Ethan whined, his whole face falling comically. “It feels like we haven’t had time to just hang out together in ages.”

 

“Yeah, my classes have been really intense this term,” I lied again, hoping he didn’t know I’d only taken three classes that fall, one of which was a sketching class that I could have passed without even showing up all term.

 

“People say Sophomore Year is a real workhorse year at most schools. Over at the Academy, every year is just as hard, so I wouldn't know, but that’s what people say, you know?” I hated it when Ethan pretended to know more than everyone else, which was, like, always. “I hope that you’ll be done with your project by Saturday, though, because . . .” He fished in his pocket and pulled out what looked like two theater tickets. “. . . I have a recital at Heinz Hall Saturday night and I saved you a seat. Do you think you’ll be able to make it? I know how much you love violin music.”

 

I really wanted to tell him, ‘yeah, almost as much as I like listening to cats mating’, but I didn’t. Damn my mother and all those Emily Post etiquette lessons she made me sit through as a child. I wish I had the balls to just tell his troll to get lost, once and for all. But I’m terrible at being mean and I’m even worse at lying. I scrambled to think up something - ANYTHING - I could use as an excuse for why I definitely, positively, could NOT be at that fucking recital . . . but my brain went completely blank and all I could do was stand there and stutter like a complete imbecile. The longer I flailed the wider his grin became, and the harder it became for me to think of anything at all other than the fact that I was doomed. Eventually I just gave up and shrugged in defeat.

 

“Excellent! You’re gonna love it. And afterwards we can go get a coffee together and hang out and really catch up with each other. I can’t wait!” Then, while I was still standing there paralyzed and dumb, he leaned in, wrapped his skinny arms around me, gave me a huge hug, and even snuck in a little kiss on the cheek as the disgusting topping to the already indigestible shit sandwich I felt like I was being forced to eat. “See you on Saturday, Jus. And don’t worry, you don’t have to bring me flowers or anything; your presence alone will be sufficient to make my night.”

 

Then Ethan scampered off, happy as a puppy who’d just been patted on the head and fed a milkbone, while I groaned in misery. How did I get myself into this shit? Or, better question, how the hell did I get out of it?

 

Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I quickly texted to Daphne: ‘I have to break my leg before Saturday. Do you know anyone with a baseball bat?’

 

Her, ‘WTF’? emoji in response made me chuckle. And it gave me hope. If anyone could help me figure out how to get out of a night of listening to Ethan torturing cats, it was my bestie. Daphne wasn’t raised all polite like me. She was fine with being a total bitch when needed. And I definitely needed her then.

 

So I was feeling a little better by the time I got her text. I decided to walk the dozen or so blocks west from school past My Building before catching the bus so I could garner any last iota of inspiration I might find before I went home and started painting. I had no idea why I felt so anxious about this particular project. Usually I found painting came as easily as breathing for me, but this time I felt some eerie compulsion that I had to get it ‘right’. Nothing another look at the inspiration itself wouldn’t cure, though. 

 

My walk along The Strip and through the Cultural District was as enjoyable as always, even on a grey, cold day like. I skirted around the Convention Center and the Allegheny Riverfront park before cutting south on 8th Street till I found my way back to Liberty Avenue again. I stopped to look down at the street name carved into the pavement at my feet and got the same happy feeling I always got at seeing the name of the famous street. I loved that our entire state was founded on such a lofty concept - Liberty. As a gay man, that principle meant a lot to me, so even just looking at the damn street name sometimes gave me chills. No wonder the building I picked for this project fronted my favorite street.

  
  
  


Since it was a busy workday afternoon, the streets were relatively crowded and my usual bench was occupied by an elderly woman who was probably waiting for a bus. Instead of sitting and sketching the building again, though, I walked around it, circling the edifice and looking up at it from all the many strange angles that I could, trying to soak in the feeling of the stone; make myself ‘one with it’. Fuck, I was such a nerd sometimes. Didn’t matter, though, it’s what I felt like doing and because I was on ‘Liberty Avenue’ and I had the freedom to act like a total geek, I did. I looked up at the cornices. I looked at the decorative cabbage-shaped thingies that framed the doorways. I looked up at the towering walls from below. I examined the old gas lamp fixtures close up. I looked at everything, all over again, and fell in love with the place all over again too.

  
  


And just like I always did, I walked up to the lobby door and pulled on the handle in the off chance that this time the door would be unlocked. Of course, it wasn’t. The door had always remained solidly locked. It was so frustrating. I just wanted one quick peek at the inner sanctum. How could that be wrong? I wouldn’t bother anyone. Really. I would have just walked around and looked at things and silently sketched them and then, finally satisfied, I would have left, and this compulsion I felt about the building would have been sated once and for all. Was that too much to ask for?

 

This time I let my frustration have rein. I was almost out of time. I had less than a week to complete my term project and then I’d turn it in and my time with this place would be over. Life would move on and I’d find other things to usurp my attention. There would be other things to spark my imagination and new obsessions to while away my time with. And I’d probably come back by this building every so often, and maybe even think about it, but my chance to solve its mystery would be gone so it would have to forever remain a mystery. But I didn’t want that. I WANTED to know, to understand, to glean whatever this building had to offer and I wanted it NOW!

 

“Fucking stupid door,” I muttered under my breath, giving the door one last jiggle and kicking at the bottom of the metal frame at the same time. 

 

Which was when the miracle happened. 

 

Call it providence. Call it luck. Call it the intervention of the God Hephaestus, patron god of all artisans. Call it whatever you want, but it FELT like a miracle. Because whatever I’d done right then -  some combination of the way I’d kicked at the bottom of the door frame at exactly the same time that I’d pulled at the handle and jiggled it in an upwards direction - caused the lock to give. With my mouth hanging open and my hand actually shaking with anticipation, I pulled the lobby door all the way open. And then I just stepped inside. Me, inside the Triangle Building, imagine that!

 

So, I’m not sure what I’d expected to happen once I was inside. Maybe that I’d suffer some artistic revelation and be driven to my knees on the spot or something? That I would be a changed man? That there’d be music? Whatever. But, still, I was excited beyond words as my footsteps echoed through the space of the narrow entry hall between the lobby doors. I let my fingers trail along the rough brickwork of the walls and the wooden molding below. I was probably imagining the tingle in my fingertips and the feeling that my touch on those old walls was the very thing that was bringing the building to life after decades of inactivity. It was just so fucking exhilarating, though. It was like I was about to enter the secret sanctum of someplace with almost magical powers. Little old me!

  
  


I walked up to the the nook in the wall where I’d thought the stairs to the upper floors would be located and was relieved to see that I had been correct. There was a long, narrow staircase going upwards that appeared to end on a landing on the floor above. It was almost pitch dark, so I couldn’t see much around me as I took my first tentative steps up the well-worn wooden risers of the steps. Up and up, I counted the steps as I rose, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. And I was just about to the top where I could step beyond the confines of the cramped passage of the staircase onto the more open landing which appeared to be lit by natural light, probably from the nearby windows, when something large and dark and menacing flew at me out of nowhere and completely blocked my path and my vision.

 

“What the FUCK are you doing here? Get out! GET OUT!” a hoarse voice bellowed at me so loudly that it actually hurt my ears. 

 

I couldn’t see anything at all now that the form above me was blocking out what little light had been trickling down from the landing, but I could feel the heat of a huge something or someone bearing down on me. 

 

I stepped backwards, missed the step with my foot, and the next thing I knew I was flying ass over tea kettle backwards, down the steps into the empty lobby. I hit the hard stone tiling of the lobby floor with enough velocity to completely knock the wind out of me. I must have also hit my head because a shock of painfully bright white light lit up my vision for a brief moment and then everything started to fade into a tunnel of black. 

 

You know how your brain does strange things sometimes and you find yourself thinking odd thoughts at even odder moments? Well, that’s what happened to me right then. Instead of being worried about the fact that I was hurt or wondering who it was that had just attacked me, my last thought was something along the lines of ‘maybe I shouldn’t have been joking about breaking my leg just to get out of a date with Ethan’. 

 

Then I forgot everything else as the haunted face out of my picture appeared out of nowhere right above me just as I lost consciousness for good.

********  
  
[Fade To Black by Metallica](https://youtu.be/IfRY3SsozuM). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/6/18 - Confession time - that is NOT a picture of Andrew Peebles, the 1880s Pittsburgh Architect. I could not find a picture of the man anywhere - not even when I went to Pittsburgh to do research on this book. Apparently the man was camera shy. The picture I used is of a buddy of his, Frederick John Osterling, who was a contemporary and rival. I apologize for the inconsistency, but I just needed a picture for this chapter, so . . . it’s fiction, right? Who’s excited to see Ethan make an appearance? Don’t worry, he’s mostly here just for comic relief this time. LOL. Thanks to Lorie for the suggestion about the Margarita’s being the cause behind this unfortunate hookup. So, who do you think just attacked poor Justin, hmmmmm? Off to write you down off that cliff, now. TAG & Sally.


	3. The Way You Make Me Feel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Humor Warning - please make sure all liquids are away from the computer before reading. LOL * TAG & Sally

 

Chapter 3 - The Way You Make Me Feel.

  
  


When I finally returned to my senses, my head was throbbing and it took me a couple of seconds to remember exactly what had happened. The pulsing in my head was the reminder I’d needed that I’d fallen ass over tit down a flight of stairs. Shit. So this was what it must feel like to have been run over by a Mack Truck. Can’t say I was enjoying the experience. 

I tried opening my eyes to see if I was still lying on the floor in the lobby - which was definitely a mistake considering the blinding stab of too-bright light that pierced my skull at the attempt. I immediately closed my eyes again and panted through the waves of pain that shook me. But when the worst of it had passed, I decided to use my other senses to feel out my circumstances before I attempted the vision thing again. 

 

I couldn’t be sure, but judging by the soft cushions against my back I probably wasn’t still lying on the cold, hard, lobby floor. Something about the sounds around me didn’t match up with a bare, echoing, tile-floored building lobby either. Where was I? 

 

I was pretty sure I wasn’t dead, despite how much pain I was in, or maybe because of the pain coursing through my head, since dead would presumably feel, you know, dead. Blank. Empty. Whatever. Not achy and throbbing and so much owww. Unless my father’s warnings about Hell were actually real and this was my penance for the sin of being gay. I didn’t think that a concussion sounded like divine retribution, though. Wouldn’t a vengeful god come up with something more creative? Now, if I’d woken up to my genitals aching and mutilated, THEN I might believe I was in some homophobe’s version of Hell. A sore head, though . . . meh.

 

I once again tried opening my eyes, this time much more slowly, and was glad when it looked like I’d succeeded. Unfortunately, it didn’t help much as far as figuring out where I was. I seemed to be in an unfamiliar room. It was so dimly lit that it was hard to see anything. I definitely wasn’t still in the Triangle Building lobby though. And I wasn’t in a hospital - which would have been the next logical place to find yourself after taking a nasty fall - because no hospital I had ever seen was this dark and quiet. Although there was a strong smell of antiseptic coming from somewhere, so maybe I was wrong? But no, because presumably if I’d been taken to a hospital they’d have given me something for this unbearable pain in my head. Fuck me!

 

I am embarrassed to admit that for the briefest of moments I returned to the assumption that I was dead, and let myself have a moment or two of slight panic . . . Dramatic, I know, but perfectly understandable under the circumstances, I think. I mean, let he who has woken up in a strange, dark room after having cracked open their skull while breaking and entering a building they’d been obsessing over for weeks, be the first to judge, right? It was only when I noticed that it wasn’t QUITE as dark as I’d first thought it, and then heard the sound of running water coming from somewhere over behind me, that I realized, no, I was probably still alive. Then I had to deal with the momentary rush of relief triggered by that realization and my gratefulness that I wasn’t about to meet my ‘maker’ and somehow have to justify the fact that, yeah, I did enjoy the occasional hot cock up my ass, thank you very much, and if that relegates me to the pits of hell, well, so be it because I’m not gonna apologize for being me and who the fuck gave you the right to judge me, I don’t care if you are some omnipotent fuckface, just lay off already, I’m doing the best I can with how YOU made me, you judgmental hypocrite . . . Phew. Yeah, dodged a bullet there, right? If this really had been death, I would have just failed the final judgment with that chain of consciousness shit there, huh?

 

But just where the fuck was I? I tried to push myself up off the soft surface I’d been lying on. That was sooooo not a good idea, though. Even the miniscule shift I managed was enough to cause an enormous new throb of pain to erupt right behind my eyes. I’d never really understood the term ‘seeing stars’ before, but now I totally got it. Can I just say, ‘ouch’?

 

“I wouldn’t sit up so fast if I were you,” a deep baritone voice sounded from somewhere behind me. 

 

Disregarding the voice’s advice, I shot up, immediately regretting that I’d ignored the words of caution from the mysterious stranger. My head exploded with pain, the room spun, and a sudden wave of nausea began to set in, but somehow I managed to squint my eyes towards the dim light source coming from behind me. That’s when I saw him - well, the back of him anyway - a large male figure dressed all in black and turned away from me. He was tall and skinny and, from what I could see, kinda hairy. He also seemed to be washing his hands frantically at the sink he was hunched over. 

 

“Are you okay?” I heard myself asking quietly, not sure why I was asking him that question, but it seemed strangely appropriate.

 

The man didn’t reply. Instead, he continued counting quietly to himself as he washed his hands over and over. Each time, he would squirt some soap into his hands and methodically rub them together, before rinsing and starting the process all over again. I was totally lost. What exactly was the guy counting after all? Did I miss something here or was my head still malfunctioning after being knocked for a loop?

 

“Eight . . . nine . . . ten.”

 

“Is everything alright?” I asked a little more loudly after my first question went ignored.

 

“Are you hungry?” the voice intoned, totally off topic.

 

I was so fucking confused . . . why was this man refusing to acknowledge anything I was asking him but then the next minute asking me something completely random? Maybe Daph was right and the face I saw was that of an incandescent ghost who was just pissed off and confused with the world. I shook my head - which was a mistake as it caused those stars to shoot across my vision again - but it did work to stop my imagination from running wild. I really needed to rein it in until I knew what the hell was going on here and who my Hunchbacked Host was.

 

“No . . . but thanks,” I replied, slightly bamboozled by this man.

 

“Chicken or fish?”

 

“I said I’m not hungry,” I repeated slightly louder this time.

 

“Chicken? I thought so - you had tuna for lunch, didn’t you?”

 

I rubbed my temples to try and ease some of the pain in my head. I was beginning to suspect that the pain I was feeling wasn’t just from falling down the stairs but from trying to wrap my brain around the confusion of my present situation. It literally hurt to think, even though I desperately needed to try and figure out what the deal was with this weirdo man I seemed to be trapped in a room with. I should probably have felt more uncomfortable with the situation than I did, to be honest, but there was something about the man that was oddly reassuring. I wasn’t worried precisely . . . just confused. Which was probably a good thing because I wasn’t in any condition to do anything about it if I truly had been worried or needed to flee for my life or anything like that. So I just resettled myself on my cushions at a new angle, allowing me to continue to watch the goings on over by the sink, and waited to see what would happen.

 

I watched as the man opened a cupboard above the sink and took down what appeared to be some type of small can. He opened it and poured its contents into a bowl. Fuck, I wished I could see his face, but he appeared determined to keep his back to me.

 

“Now, don’t eat it all at once . . . You remember what happened the last time you did that, don’t you, Bill?”

 

“Um . . . My name’s Justin. Justin Taylor. And you are?”

 

But my strange host totally ignored my attempted introduction and just went about whatever he was doing as if I wasn’t there. I watched as he placed the small bowl on the floor and stood back up, resting both hands on the kitchen counter, his back still facing me. If he was expecting me to jump up and run over there to eat whatever it was he’d put in the bowl on the floor, well, he was gonna be waiting a long time. What the actual fuck anyway? Who gives their injured house guest a bowl of food on the floor? 

 

“Why are you here?” 

 

I was so confused, was he talking to me or whoever this Bill person was? The guy hadn’t turned around and seemed to be directing his words to the kitchen sink. I didn’t think it made any sense, though, to be asking your plumbing fixtures what they were doing in your home, so maybe he WAS talking to me. Or maybe he was asking the bowl what it was doing on the floor? Who the fuck knew? I was so lost by that point I was kinda hoping I’d maybe pass out again and the next time I woke up things would miraculously make sense once more.

 

But, when that didn’t seem to be an option, I managed a dazed, “Huh?”

 

“I don’t have anything worth stealing, if that’s what you had in mind.” His voice sounded kinda sad when he said that and it made my stomach do a wild little flip-flop thingie that didn’t seem related to the nausea caused by my concussion.

 

But before I could answer him, I was surprised by a flash of movement as something that was moving way too fast for my still dazed brain to focus on emerged from behind the still hunched over stranger, jumped from the countertop, and landed with a quiet thump on the wood floor at the man’s feet. I turned my head quickly, trying to follow the speedy little thing - whatever it was - but the dizziness from before came back at full volume. I slumped back against the pillows propping me up and just moaned through the worst of it till I could breathe again. Luckily, by that time the thing that had caused all the trouble had casually sauntered over to investigate me and my moaning on its own.

  
  


The two yellow eyes, the disdainful frown, the pointy ears that swiveled around like radar dishes trying to catch my every whimper, and the questioning little ‘mew?’ explained it all. 

 

“Oh, you’ve got a cat! Okay, that explains a lot. Because I thought, either you were talking to your sink or that maybe I’d hit my head even harder than it seemed.” 

 

“I don’t have a cat.” 

 

“Uh . . .” I pointed to the furry body that had just lazily stretched itself in front of me before daintily lying down about a foot away from my face. “Then what is that? Or am I just dreaming all of this. You know, actually, that would make more sense than what’s happening. Maybe I hurt myself so badly when I fell that I’m in a coma and this is all some fever dream or something?”

 

“It’s not MY cat. He’s just some stray that came in here and refused to leave.”

 

“But you’re feeding him?”

 

“So?”

 

“Soooooo, that makes him your cat.”

 

“No it doesn’t. If anything it makes me HIS person. But we don’t believe in labels like that,” the hulking back declared, still not turning around to face me. “I only feed him because he gets even more annoying if I don’t. Plus, I don’t need a starving cat dying and stinking up the place.”

 

“But you named him ‘Bill’, right? People don’t name cats that aren’t theirs. They just call them ‘cat’ and tell them to shoo,” I insisted, sure that I must have proven my point finally.

 

“I didn’t name him ‘Bill’.”

 

“But . . . Didn’t I just hear you talking to someone named ‘Bill’? I’m sure I heard you saying that name and MY name definitely isn’t Bill so . . .” I was getting confused again. Maybe that coma dream theory had more to it than it seemed?

 

“It’s ‘William’ actually,” the stranger muttered so quietly that I wouldn’t have heard him if it hadn’t been so deathly silent in there. 

 

“William? Who names their fucking cat ‘William’? I mean, I kinda think ‘Bill The Cat’ is dope, in an old-school kinda way, but William? I don’t get it?” I was too tired and in too much pain, for once, to remember my manners with this looney-toons guy any longer.

 

“William Shakespaw,” Mister Tall, Dark and Crazy mumbled at me.

 

“Huh?” I asked again, unable to come up with anything more intelligent to say.

 

“The fucking cat’s name is ‘William Shakespaw’,” the man roared back at me, finally turning around to reveal himself to be owner of the mysterious haunted face in the window. “He likes to lay on my books when I try to read and he bats at my hand when I turn the pages so I call him William Shakespaw, alright? Do you have a problem with that too? Should I have consulted with you and asked for a list of approved cat names before I selected one? Who made you the cat name dictator anyway? Some fucking burglar you are. Or did you just break into my home to give me shit about cat name etiquette, huh? Huh?”

 

As he spoke, the man had gradually become more irate and more animated. He had even advanced a step or two closer to where I was lying, glaring down at me all the while. As he got nearer, even in the dimness of the room, I could finally see him a little more clearly. In the back of my mind I was rather proud that my sketch had got so many of the details about him correct, despite the fact that I must have only got the briefest of glances at him from clear across the street. He was just as hairy as I had drawn him with a bushy beard that covered most all of his face and straggled down his neck. The beard was matched by a headful of shaggy, poorly-trimmed, dark brown hair that curled around his face and partially obscured his eyes. From what I could see of the parts of him that weren’t hidden by hair, he was probably younger than I’d first suspected - maybe in his mid-thirties or so - and he had a strong, high forehead, an aquiline nose and, nestled under equally unruly, thick brows, worried-looking hazel eyes. I could see the beginnings of small lines around the corners of his eyes and he looked tired, with the bags under his eyes betraying the fact that he probably didn’t sleep all that well. But in spite of what some might see as a forbidding appearance, I didn’t get a ‘dangerous’ vibe from him at all. Just that worried nervousness. And maybe an undercurrent of lonely sadness. 

 

Or maybe it was just me reading too much into some crazy guy who lived all alone in a huge vacant building with a formerly stray cat as his only company.

 

“You’re my ghost!” I announced, laughing up at him, my mirth causing him to stop in his tracks and stare at me as if I were the crazy one.

 

“What the hell are you talking about? I’m not a ghost,” he insisted, taking a step backwards in retreat. “Shit, you must have hit your head harder than I thought. I’m going to have to call an ambulance or something, aren’t I? And you’ll probably sue me even though it’s not my fault you broke in here and then did a header off the stairs.” This thought seemed to make him angry again, though, spurring him to once more demand, “What the hell are you doing here, anyway? I told you I don’t have anything worth stealing.”

 

“I just wanted to draw your building?” I replied, the answer sounding more like a question than assertion of fact. 

 

“I know that; I’ve watched you. But what are you doing INSIDE? I didn’t want you inside.”

 

“I . . . I . . . I’m sorry. I just wanted to see if any of the architectural details of the building had been maintained on the interior,” I haltingly explained. “See, I’m doing this project for my Art and Architecture class at the Art Institute of Pittsburgh and I chose your building because it’s so unique and I’ve researched everything I could about it from an historical perspective and I’ve got lots of pictures and drawings of it from the outside but I couldn’t find anything on what the interior was like and I wrote to the building owners but I never got any response and I just thought I’d try the door one last time to see if it was open and when I jiggled it this one way today - well, I jiggled it at the same time I kicked it, actually - but it opened, so I was just coming inside for one quick peek, and I didn’t mean any harm, but I got startled when I saw you and . . . yeah . . .” Did I mention that I sometimes talk way too much when I’m nervous?”

 

“You’re annoying,” my host declared while leaning back against the countertop and crossing his arms over his chest as if he was done with me.

 

“That’s all you’re going to say? After you basically pushed me down the stairs, you think I’M annoying?”

 

“Yes. You’re very annoying. You’re even more annoying than Bill.”

 

“You’re comparing me to a cat?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. 

 

“Well, you’re still here aren’t you? You won’t leave me alone. You’re exactly the same. Only instead of a stray cat, you’re a stray burglar.”

 

“I’m not a fucking burglar . . .”

 

“That’s precisely what a burglar would say.”

 

I gave a not-so-quiet tut at the audacity of his words. I mean, I guess he was right, but he didn’t have to be so mean about it. Either way, I was done with this insane conversation. I stood up quickly and felt the room begin to spin around me, but it didn’t matter because I wasn’t going to stay here any longer. Not if he was going to be like THAT. So I ignored the dizziness that was slowly beginning to overtake me and grabbed my bag from where I spied it waiting on the floor beside the couch where I’d been resting. I felt myself stumble and I could see out of the corner of my eyes that he wanted to help me. I could see that his feet were trying to move and make their way towards me, but it seemed like something was stopping him. I wasn’t going to wait to find out what his deal was, though. I made my way to the door on my wobbly feet and prayed that I would make it down the stairs in one piece. I really couldn’t afford another head injury. 

 

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to be annoyed by me any longer since I’m leaving,” I announced as I walked out the door and gave it a slam behind me - because, clearly, I’m a mature adult who handles situations like this in an adult fashion. NOT! 

 

Of course, I’d only made it about halfway down the stairs before I had to stop and sit down until another wave of vertigo passed. That’s when I heard the sounds that had followed me from the room above. My stomach dropped as I listened in, hearing the sadness in the man’s voice as he spoke angrily to himself. But It wasn’t just the tone of his voice that got to me; it was his words, filled with such loneliness and self hatred, that caused the uneasy feeling in my gut. 

 

“FUCK! Even the burglar couldn’t wait to leave. Everyone always leaves. Shit, Bill . . .”

 

Okay, so now I felt bad for not wanting to stick around and be harangued by the crazy guy. I mean, yeah, he was nuts and I felt like shit and probably needed to have a doctor look at my head or something, but it still didn’t sit well with me that I was leaving like I was. It also bothered me that I knew the cat’s name but had apparently forgotten to ask the cat’s person’s name. Maybe I really was as annoying and bratty as he’d accused me of being.

 

Or maybe it was just the bump on my head that had made me act like a total asshole to the guy. Yeah, let’s go with that excuse. It made me feel less horrible, even if it was, maybe, not completely true.

 

Either way, I figured my best course of action at that particular moment was to first and foremost get to the urgent care clinic and take care of my head. I could try and figure out my psycho ghost later. And with that decided, I gingerly climbed back to my feet and carefully made my way down all five flights of stairs, letting myself out the still unsecured lobby door. It was already dark when I finally left, so I must have been out for a while - not a good sign - and I still felt too sick to try and figure out what I was supposed to do or where I was supposed to go. Thank fuck that my best friend was only a phone call away and said she’d be there to pick me up in fifteen minutes. So all I had to do was hobble over to my bench across the street and wait for help to arrive. 

 

And while I waited I kept an eye on my building, not missing the moment when the curtain in the middle window of the top floor shifted enough to show me a now-familiar, bearded face, looking out at me from above.

********  
  


[ The Way You Make Me Feel by Michael Jackson ](https://youtu.be/HzZ_urpj4As)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Brian with a cat named Bill . . . (okay I’m still laughing and I wrote that part. LOL.) Hope you enjoyed it! TAG & Sally


	4. Taylor The Latte Boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Justin goes back for another meeting with his Mystery Man. And he brings coffee this time. LOL. Enjoy! TAG & Sally

Chapter 4 - Taylor The Latte Boy.

****  
  


“Justin, you have a CONCUSSION,” Daphne repeated sternly. “You should be in bed. Not traipsing off after some crazy cat-loving ghost.”

“It’s just a MILD concussion, Daph. That’s like having MILD salsa on your chips - it doesn’t even count. At that point, it’s just like dowsing your food in chunky vegetable soup.”

“Yeah, well, vegetable soup is what your brain will turn into if you don’t listen to your doctor and take it easy,” Daphne insisted, trying to block the door to my closet with her body so I couldn’t get to my clothing.

“I can’t just take it easy, Daph. I can’t stop thinking about him. I mean, how do you expect me to relax with a mystery like THAT out there. Not to mention that I still have to finish my term project by Monday, and now that I know that the building isn’t empty after all, I simply HAVE to get back in there and see what the interior is like,” I maintained adamantly as I reached around her to grab a shirt off a hanger from behind her back. “It was too dark - and I was too distracted by having almost cracked open my skull - to have really got a good look around me last night. But now that it’s daylight again, I can take my time and look around and hopefully get a couple of good sketches, provided there’s anything worthwhile to include in my project.”

“I’m sure your professor will give you an extension on the project once you show him the MRI of your traumatic brain injury, Jus.”

Daphne was still standing there in front of my closet with her hands on her hips, looking immovable as all hell, and preventing me from getting to the pile of clean jeans on the shelf. But, as stubborn as she was, I was sneakier. So when she wouldn’t let me get to my pants, I decided to just go without. I shoved the sweatpants I’d been wearing down off my hips and stepped out of them, bare as the day I was born. And as expected, Daphne was distracted enough by my naked dick that she didn’t react at all when I reached around her and finally secured the Levis I’d been after. Of course, as soon as I pulled the pants on and she no longer had a dick wobbling in her face, she immediately returned to consciousness and gave me one of THOSE looks, clearly not amused that I’d used her one weakness - her love of dick - against her.

“I don’t need an extension. I just need a couple of hours inside the building and then I can come back here and start painting.”

Daphne scoffed. “That’s if you don’t get kidnapped by the creepy cat man before then.” When I just shook my head and gave her a ‘Seriously?’ look, she semi-relented. “Fine. But how are you going to get there, genius? Because the doctor said you can’t drive for at least seventy-two hours.”

“No problem. You’re going to drive me,” I informed her.

“And how do you figure that?”

“Easy . . . because you’re my best friend and you love me and you wouldn’t want me to have to take public transportation and potentially fall again and really get hurt, so you’ll be sweet and offer to drive me,” I explained with one of my best, most bratty, smiles.

“Oh, quit with the best friend thing - you know I can never say no to that. But urgh, I hate you, you know,” Daph stated even as I could see in her eyes that she had already capitulated. “And if your brains do turn to vegetable soup, I refuse to clean up your drool - I’ll just let you stew in your own spittal and laugh at you.”

I let her babble and harangue me as she gathered her purse and keys, because I knew I’d already won and I didn’t want to rub it in. Plus, there was no way she’d let me wallow in my own spittal even if I did become a vegetable - despite all her complaining, she was basically a big softie. So even though I had to listen to her going on about how defying my doctor’s direct orders was a really bad idea - and listing in long, gory, detail, all the possible negative consequences of neglecting a TBI - for the duration of the ride back to downtown, I didn’t let it get to me. Daphne really does love me and I know she is just worried about my scrambled brains. She DOES overreact sometimes though.

“So, how are you going to get Ghost Man to let you inside again?” my friend asked as we neared downtown.

That was a good question, actually. “I guess I could just break in again. Unless he’s boarded up the door, I should be able to kick the lock free the same way I did yesterday. Thank fuck it’s a really old building and an old door, right? Maybe I should bring him a peace offering, though, just in case he’s still not happy with me. What’s a good gift that says, ‘sorry I broke into your building - twice - can I please sketch it now’? Something I can get with . . .” I pulled out my wallet and looked inside . . . “less than ten bucks?”

“Coffee?” Daphne suggested as she pulled up to the curb outside the Crazy Mocha shop a block down from the Triangle Building.

Not much of a peace offering, I supposed, but what did the guy expect for $10, right? “Good idea, Daph. Thanks.”

I leaned over to kiss her cheek before getting out of the car and she handed me a twenty. “Here. I have to get to work so I can’t stay. Please use it to take a Lyft home. I really don’t want to have to visit you in a nursing home for the rest of your life after you incur permanent brain damage from your next TBI. Kay?”

“I promise. Thanks, Daph. And I love you even though you said you hated me.”

“Get out. Don’t stay out too late. And PLEASE be careful,” she ordered before driving away while still muttering about stupid blond boys and crazy, cat-loving ghosts.

Fifteen minutes later I was standing in front of the Triangle Building lobby doors with a paperboard drink tray loaded with two large lattes. I decided to at least try and start this off in a legal way, so I politely knocked against the glass of the lobby door. No answer. I knocked harder, making a much louder racket that I hoped would carry up to the sixth floor where I knew my mystery man was hiding. Still nothing. So I started kicking at the door, repeatedly, creating a steady, droning, pounding noise that I kept up for a good five minutes. The only result this time was that the guy who worked at the phone store around the corner poked his head out to see what was going on. I waved at him, and tried to look like I was meant to be there, and he must have bought it because he went back into his shop and I continued my stead kicking campaign. About three minutes later I saw a curious, furry little body come trotting through the opening to the staircase.

I finally stopped kicking at the door. “Hey, Bill! Can you please tell your person that he’s got company?” I asked politely.

Bill the Cat just hunkered down on his haunches, staring at me with that detached and disinterested look that all cats seem to have. As far as I could tell, the cat’s human had not accompanied him downstairs. So much for the polite way, huh?

“Fine. If that’s the way you want to play this,” I mumbled, setting the drinks caddy down on the sidewalk next to me so that I could get a better hold on the door.

Then I tried to remember how I’d worked it the night before, pulling and pushing at the door frame in various ways until I thought I had it just about right, before aiming a vigorous kick at the bottom part of the metal frame holding the glass in place. And, voila, the door sprang open just like before. I smiled to myself, pleased with my cat burglar skills, and bent over to pick up my tray of coffees again. Then I let myself in and walked up to the resident guard cat. Unfortunately, Bill was not quite as thrilled with my ability to open locked doors as I was, and he was now standing up, his back arched and his hair on end, as he hissed menacingly at the invader who’d dared to enter his domain without permission.

“Nice to see you again, too, William. Or should I call you, Mr. Shakespaw?” I greeted him, undeterred by the feline display of animosity. “Don’t worry, I didn’t forget you when I was shopping for peace offerings.”

I retrieved the little, four-ounce, plastic container of creamer that I’d got at the coffee shop from my drinks’ carrier, peeled the top off using my teeth, and then set it down on the floor in front of the irate kitty. At first Bill looked at the cup with suspicion, but apparently the aroma of the half & half was too tempting. He forgot to be angry at me as he moved closer, sniffing at the unfamiliar little treat. By the time he’d become brave enough to take a tentative taste, I knew I’d won him over. I quickly stepped around the now-purring cat and made my way over to the staircase, ready to tackle the cat’s person next.

I took the steps up to mystery man’s floor two at a time, something I regretted by the time I’d made it to the sixth floor, which was when I belatedly remembered my doctor’s prohibition to take it easy for the next couple of day. But my concussion didn’t explain why I had these strange butterflies in my tummy as I was about to knock on the door - maybe I was more nervous than I originally thought. I stood there with my hand on the door for a good minute before I built up the courage to actually knock. As I waited to see if my presence would be acknowledged, I shifted my messenger bag on my shoulder and jostled the drinks in my hand restlessly. I probably should have thought about this more. What was I going to say to him? However, before I could get too lost in my thoughts, the door opened a crack and there, looking right at me, was those sad hazel eyes that I’d seen for the first time just the day before.

“Well, if it isn’t the stray burglar,” Mystery Man all but growled at me. “How nice of you to break in again. What do you want?”

“I uh . . .” Yeah, I really should have thought about this more. “I brought coffee this time,” I heard myself mumble.

He scoffed loudly and I could see the crack in the door starting to get smaller as he began to close it. “Wait . . . please.”

I could hear him breathing loudly on the other side of the door, but he made no effort to close it further. “I don’t understand what you want,” he said honestly.

This I could do. “I just really love this building,” I laughed nervously, aware I sounded like a total dork when I talked about my love of architecture and art in general. “It sounds crazy, I know, but whenever I see it, my fingers itch to draw it. I can’t explain. I just . . . I’d love to be able to take a look around inside. See if there is anything original left from when it was built? I won’t bother you, I promise. I just want to have a look . . .”

“You talk an awful lot for a burglar.”

I smiled. “I told you I’m not a burglar . . . just a really eager art student who wants an A on his project.”

“Even if it means you go to prison for it?” I could see a glimmer of something almost teasing in those big, hazel eyes.

I nodded. “Yes, even if it means I end up in prison.”

The door opened and my mystery man backed away. “Shut the door behind you,” he told me, walking over to the bookcase that was across the room.

Once again I was presented with his back. I wanted to ask him to turn around but knew that probably wouldn’t go down well. I wouldn’t want him to accuse me of being an impolite burglar. But there had to be some way to get him to engage more.

“I’ll just put your coffee here on the table,” I told him, my eyes seemingly unable to tear themselves away from this man; there was something so fascinating about him even though I couldn’t quite put my finger on what exactly it was.

Once it was clear that the lure of my coffee offering wasn’t enough to get him to turn around, I made my way over to the sofa I’d been lying on the day before, dumping my bag on the floor and digging out my smaller sketch pad which I would be using to take notes. I settled in, got out a pencil and made sure it was sharpened. Then I took up my own cup of coffee, slurping at the steamy beverage loudly and becoming instantly mortified.

“Sorry, it’s hot,” I mumbled.

Thankfully, he didn’t comment on my behavior. “There’s a drawing on the wall by the door over there,” he pointed somewhere over to his right, “that you might find interesting.”

I waited to see if he was going to say any more, but when it was clear he wasn’t, I followed directions and went over to take a look. “Wow, this is beautiful,” I said almost dreamily.

The picture he’d alluded to was a stunning, black and white sketch of my building from when it was first built. The date was etched in the corner: May 6, 1885. I couldn’t stop staring at the drawing in front of me. The detail was incredible; it was almost like looking at a photograph. I took my cell out of my pocket, hesitating slightly before asking if I could take a photo. This was something I would love to show my professor, but I didn’t know if my host would find it intrusive for me to photograph it or not.

“Is it okay if I take a picture?” I finally wound up enough courage to ask.

“Sure,” he mumbled, his broad shoulders shrugging as he replied.

“I’d love to manipulate one of my sketches with this picture - show how the building’s changed over time, you know? How the trees outside have grown, how the street has become more populated and busy.” I knew I was rambling - not that I could stop or anything - it’s what I do when I’m excited about something.

“Go for it,” the man’s back told me as he continued to browse his bookshelf, reaching out every now and then to straighten a book or move it to a different spot on the shelf.

“Would you . . . would you like to see one of my sketches?” I asked the question before my brain had time to assess whether or not it was a good idea.

It was a few moments before he replied. “Sure,” he said, slowly turning around, all the while keeping his eyes to the floor and his hands shoved deeply into his ill-fitting jeans’ pockets.

I walked over to my bag and pulled out my bigger sketchbook, the one containing an embarrassing number of drawings of ‘my’ building. Some were just basic sketches while others were super detailed and displayed an almost obsessive attention to meticulous detail. I felt silly admitting this to myself, but I really wanted this guy to like my work, so I was almost reluctant to hand the sketchbook over. But, with a little mental prod, I eventually held the book out to him, watching as the man hesitantly pulled his hands out of his pockets along with a large white handkerchief, which he then proceeded to use to hold my sketchbook with. I almost made the mistake of joking, asking if he thought the pad of paper would bite him, only holding my tongue at the last instant. Then I watched in confused amusement as he used just the tip of a finger to turn the pages over. What the hell was up with this guy anyway? If I hadn’t been so nervous about what he thought of my drawings, I might have even asked.

“What do you think?” I hadn’t felt this anxious about someone liking my work for a while.

His silence made me even more nervous.

“They’re . . . good,” he responded after what felt like a billion years, but in reality was probably no more than a minute.

I watched as he handed me back my sketchbook and immediately made his way to the sink to wash his hands. He pretty much repeated what I saw him doing yesterday, but with more intensity - and a heck of a lot more soap. He even lathered up a nail brush and scrubbed fiercely at the skin of his hands. By the time he’d counted to eight, I couldn’t bear to watch anymore. His skin looked raw as he continued to rub manically at it. I hesitated briefly as I walked over to him and touched his shoulder gently, hoping I wouldn’t scare him.

“Hey, stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

The moment my hand made contact, he jumped. “Don’t touch me . . . please.”

I pulled back my hand but was still at a total loss about what I should do. The ghost man went right back to work, scrubbing at his hands with the little brush, and it was making me sick to my stomach to watch him hurt himself like that. I truly didn’t have a clue what was going on there, but if he didn’t want me to touch him, fine. I still felt like I should do something, though, to stop him from mangling his hands like that. I looked around for something to help me and the first thing I saw was the sketchbook I was still holding in one hand. Maybe I could distract him?

“Hey, is it okay if I ask you some questions about the building? There isn’t a whole lot online beyond the basics about the architect and I can use whatever you might be able to tell me for my report.”

It worked; the man finally looked up from his business at the sink. “I don’t know that much, but . . . what do you want to know?”

I scrambled to think of questions to ask him. It was crazy that I was having to think so hard to come up with a single question when I’d had a thousand in my brain just a few days before. But put on the spot like this, I couldn’t think of one single thing to ask. My brain was stupid like that sometimes.   
Think, think, think . . .

My attention returned to the framed architectural drawing on the wall, and I seized on it. “Do you know who made this drawing? If I’m going to use it in my project I should probably give its attribution.”

“I have no idea. It’s just always been hanging there as far back as I can remember,” my mystery man answered.

“Would you mind if I took it off the wall and looked at the back? Sometimes artists will print information about their work on the back of the drawing. I promise I won’t damage it.”

He hesitated a moment or two but then shrugged. I noted that he was no longer scrubbing at his hands though, so I counted this as progress. I strode over to the section of wall where the drawing was hanging and carefully reached up to remove it from the wall. I could see that there was a wire screwed into both sides of the frame which was threaded through a tiny brass hook nailed into the wall behind the print. I carefully guided the wire with my index finger as I lifted the picture frame, and managed to unhook it with a little maneuvering. Then I lifted the frame down.

I laid the picture on the table next to the coffee I’d brought my host, which had remained untouched so far. I had expected that, like usual when you took an old picture off a wall, the action would have resulted in a cloud of dust and cobwebs, but that wasn’t the case here. There wasn’t a speck of dust on that ancient picture, back or front. So, when I turned the frame over, I could clearly see that the back of the frame had been covered with an elegant maroon felt, indicating that this had been a professional framing job, but it meant I couldn’t see the back of the drawing until I removed the entire mounting board. I looked up and noted that my host had thankfully left off his hand washing and was looking over my shoulder, supervising my inspection of the frame.

“I’ll need to take this off,” I pointed to the backing and got another shrug of acquiescence as I turned the frame upside down on the table and almost knocked over the waiting coffee cup. “Hey, don’t forget your coffee. It tastes better when it’s hot, you know.”

While I was fiddling with the frame, my host moved over to take a seat on the sofa, sitting as far away from me as possible on the relatively small piece of furniture. He pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket again, wrapped it around the base of the paper coffee cup and then picked up the cup, bringing it close enough to his face to sniff at the steam bubbling up through the tiny hole in the plastic lid.

“Mmm. Smells good,” my mystery man commented, almost as if he was enjoying the aroma against his will. “I’ve never smelled coffee like this. What kind is it?”

“It’s just a vanilla latte,” I commented, without really registering the oddness of the question, seeing as my attention was focused on trying to get the drawing out of the frame without damaging it.

Finally, with a little prying, I managed to loosen the mounting board from the frame so I could slide it out, revealing the drawing underneath. I had expected to see just the reverse of the drawing - the back of that one piece of paper - which would hopefully have some notation on it revealing the name of the artist. That’s all you would normally find inside a picture frame, right? But I should have known that nothing about this building was normal. Because, inside that one hundred and thirty-year-old frame was a surprise - there was a loose piece of paper that fell out as I pulled the mounting board free.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to dislodge anything,” I apologized, bending over to pick up the scrap of paper that had fluttered to the carpeting below the table. “Hmmm. What’s this?”

I unfolded the yellowed and slightly brittle piece of paper, which appeared to be a piece of stationary. At the top of the roughly five inches by seven-inch sheet, the initials ‘A. P.’ were printed in an exaggerated cursive scrawl. It was done in a metallic gold ink that must have been fairly expensive back in the 1880s - assuming that was when it was written. There was no date on the letter itself, though, only a short note penned in the elegant handwriting I had seen in other missives of the time. It read:

‘My Dearest B,

It is finally done. May this physical edifice I have created match in strength and beauty the spiritual edifice we are building together. And though we can not show ourselves to the world, I hope you will know, every time you look at this pile of stones and mortar, that my love for you is just as strong and hopefully as everlasting. Perhaps, someday, we can live here together, protected from the capriciousness of the uncaring world, and safe in each other’s arms.

Yours In My Heart,

A.’

“Look! A secret love letter. Did you know this was in here?” I asked, showing the note to my host. “It’s beautiful.” Judging by the initials on the stationary as well as the content, I was guessing the note was penned by Andrew Peebles himself. And now that I could see the back of the drawing, I could see a signature on the picture in the bottom right corner with a large ‘A’ and a second name that started with a ‘P’, in the same handwriting as the note, a sure sign that it was all the work of the architect. “Looks like our Mr. Peebles was not only an architect, but also an artist AND an aspiring poet.”

He didn’t reach out to touch the letter, but read it while I held it up. “Sappy,” was the man’s only comment - his nose scrunched up slightly as he said it, as if the romantic tone disgusted him somewhat.  

“Nah. That’s just how they talked back then, I think. It was a much more . . . sentimental time . . . you know?” I laid the letter down on the table, smoothing it out so it would lie flat, and quickly snapped a picture of it with my phone.

“Like I said, sappy.”

His curmudgeonly response made me laugh; it seemed to perfectly fit his personality, or at least what I knew about his personality so far.

“I can’t wait to work with all of this,” I gushed exuberantly. “I can already see in my mind exactly what I want to create. The drawing and the letter will be great additions. Would you . . . would you be interested in seeing it when I’m done?”

I hated how desperate I sounded, but I knew I needed to find some way to get back here - especially after finding that mysterious letter. There had to be a good story here, right? And not just that, but I felt compelled to see this man again. I didn’t know what it was about him, but for some reason, I wanted to maintain whatever nebulous connection we’d begun to forge. I was hoping that my offer to share my art project with my mystery man would be enough to cause him to want the same.

This time he didn’t take as long to reply. “If I said ‘no’ you would probably just break in again and force me to look at your shit anyway, right?”

“Probably. Once you let a stray burglar in, it’s really hard to get rid of them, I hear. At least we don’t shed as much as cats, though.”

“You’re fucking annoying, you know that right?”

It was probably my imagination, but I swear I saw the smallest hint of a smile as he said that.

“My best friend tells me this all the time.” I felt myself smiling too as I gathered my stuff together and shoved my sketchbooks back in my bag. “So, I need to get home and get these pictures ready to print out to add them to my project, but I’ll come by tomorrow and show you what progress I’ve made, okay?”

“Don’t fall down the stairs on your way out this time,” the man said, getting up at the same time I did and following me as I headed for the door to his apartment.

“I’ll try not to but I can’t promise anything,” I replied as I started down the stairs. “See you tomorrow then. Tell Bill I said ‘bye’.”

My mystery man just stood there at the top of the stairs, silently watching me leave, without comment. When I glanced back at him briefly as I reached the landing at the bottom of the first flight of stairs and turned to make my way down to the next floor, I thought I detected a shy smile partially hidden by the bushy brown beard. It was encouraging. I felt I was making significant progress. And at least this time he wasn’t complaining to his cat about being lonely as I was leaving him.

I was already in the rideshare car on the way home when I realized that I still hadn’t remembered to ask the guy his name.

 

[Taylor The Latte Boy by Kristin Chenoweth](https://youtu.be/zXS0nEOx_20) 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/10/18 - Who’d have thought love could be so caffeinated, huh? LOLZ. And so we get the first clue to the rest of our mystery. Hope you are enjoying the slow build up and aren’t totally annoyed by our bratty Justin yet. TAG & Sally.


	5. Obsession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask us why Justin is babbling about fingering someone - ACK! *authors run off to hide their heads* LOLZ! Enjoy! TAG & Sally

  
  


Chapter 5 - Obsession.

  
  


I was still hunched over my computer playing with my pictures when Daphne finally got home from work several hours later. She seemed happy to see me in one piece and with my brains still intact. She even made me a cup of English Breakfast tea and brought me a sandwich to nibble on while I continued to work. 

 

“Where’d you get that new drawing? It doesn’t look like your other stuff,” Daphne asked as she laid my dinner down next to me on the kitchen table. 

 

“The drawing on the right is mine but the one on the left is one that my Mystery Man had in his apartment. I had to adjust the sizing and angle a little - which took me forever to get right, by the way - but I was able to get them to line up perfectly. See?” 

 

“You look so proud of yourself,” Daphne laughed as she stole a potato chip from my plate.

 

I shrugged, what could I say, I was pretty damn impressed with how well the manipulation had turned out. It wasn’t something I’d ever done before, so yeah, I was feeling a little smug.

 

“You’re such a supercilious little asshole,” she teased but I didn’t correct her since it was basically true.

 

I leaned back so my friend could get a better view of what I’d been working on. I’d taken the older drawing and manipulated it so it was the correct size and angle to match my more recent drawing and then overlapped them so that the left half of the building was the old drawing and the right half was my modern building. It was remarkable to see that the building had remained basically the same, even though the details around the building had changed so much. So, in my drawing, you could see the modern street signs and traffic lights along with more mature trees and even a car on the street in front of the building, while the older drawing showed a building bare of even the modernities of fire escapes or electrical wires. 

 

“I plan to use the manipulated drawings, superimposed over a colored photograph I have from that same angle, as the centerpiece of my painting. Then I’m going to add other pictures and found objects to the canvas and incorporate it all into a painting collage. What do you think?” I asked my friend and occasional art critic. Daphne was one of the most honest people I knew, and if she thought something I was doing was crap, she wasn’t one to hold back, which was something I equally loved and hated about her.

 

“It’ll be brilliant. All your stuff always is,” Daphne declared around a mouthful of toast she was munching on - why did she always have food in her mouth when she talked to me? “So the ghost let you back inside, huh?”

 

“Sorta. I kinda had to break in again, but at least he didn’t try and push me down the stairs this time. He didn’t seem to like his coffee though.” I went back to messing around with the pictures while we spoke. “He also kinda freaked out at one point after I asked if he wanted to look at my drawings of the building. I let him look through my sketchbook, but it was like he was afraid to touch it or something. And then he washed his hands for, like, an hour, scrubbing at them with this little brush till they were red and raw. It was weird. What’s up with that, huh?”

 

“Sounds like your ghost might be OCD or something,” Daphne expounded, going into what I called her ‘Expert’ mode. “We just did a unit on phobias in my Psychology class last month. I was really surprised to learn how prevalent those kinds of compulsions are. The textbook we had said that it affects more than two percent of the population, which is like one out of every fifty people or something. Not everyone has it as bad as what it sounds like your ghost is going through - only about half the reported cases are considered that ‘severe’. I wonder if it’s a result of some kind of childhood trauma or something - the data we looked at says it’s most likely a combination of environmental and behavioral conditioning that occurs in conjunction with low serotonin levels in the brain. There’s some really interesting studies going on in that field . . .” 

 

I interrupted her before she could get lost in an esoteric description of some obscure medical study I couldn’t care less about. “But the hand washing? I mean, did I do something to trigger that?” I’d never met anyone with OCD before, so this was all completely new to me.

 

Daphne pulled her hair out of her ponytail and I watched as it cascaded over her shoulders in this big mass of curls. “They say people with OCD each have certain characteristic behaviours - like, for your ghost, it’s compulsive hand washing - that they use as a way to get rid of the obsessive thoughts they are having. Different people have different compulsions. So, an individual who experiences an intrusive obsession regarding germs, for example, may engage in hand washing to reduce the anxiety triggered by the obsession. Because this washing ritual temporarily reduces the anxiety, the probability that the individual will engage in hand washing when a contamination fear occurs in the future is increased.  As a result, compulsive behavior not only persists but actually becomes excessive.”

 

That didn’t really help me, but I appreciated her trying, and I marvelled at her almost encyclopedic knowledge of useless crap. “Okaaaaayyyy. But what the fuck do I DO about it? I don’t want him hurting himself every time I go over there just because I ask him to look at my sketchbook or something.” 

 

“You’re going back? Again?”

 

“Yeah . . . I kinda told him I would bring the manipulated pictures over for him to look at. After all, I owe him after he let me break in and all without calling the cops on me. And, besides, I didn’t really get time to look around at the interior, except for the small room he lives in on the top floor. There’s got to still be a lot of interesting details to draw, you know?”

 

“What’s this dude’s name, anyway? I can’t keep calling him your Ghost Man forever.”

 

I could feel my cheeks pinking up a little as I admitted I had once again forgotten to ask him his name.

 

“Have I told you lately how strange you are?” she asked, looking at me as if I was some alien lifeform she wanted to put under her microscope and examine like one of the bacterium in her bio lab.

 

“It’s not my fault. I got distracted by the hand washing thing and then the drawing and then I started thinking about how I could manipulate the pictures together for my project and the next thing I knew I was on my way home and I didn’t realize I’d forgotten to ask his name till I was halfway here,” I explained, feeling like a toddler who was trying to explain his way out of being in trouble, while Daphne looked on at me with this infuriatingly indulgent smile. 

 

“You like him,” she grinned, Daph loved nothing better than ragging me about my love life . . . or lack thereof. 

 

“I don’t even know him, Daph.”

 

“You loveeeeee him. You wanna marry hiiiiiiim. Justin and Ghost Man, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g . . .” she started to chant, taunting me just like she had back when we were only seven and I made the mistake of telling her I was going to marry Aladdin - you know, the one from the Disney cartoon - when I grew up.

 

Of course, I reacted completely appropriately and maturely by sticking out my tongue at her and then throwing the crusts of my sandwich at her face. What? She deserved it. Although we probably do need to grow up eventually, right? Well, maybe not just yet, though.

 

When we’d finally stopped giggling, I sighed and returned to my computer work. “Okay, so don’t give me too much shit, alright, but, yeah, I kind of do see something in him that’s . . . I don’t know . . . compelling, maybe . . . He’s intriguing in a way. I can’t figure him out. And you KNOW how big of a sucker I am for a mystery. It’s like I can’t stop till I solve the puzzle. Maybe that’s why I feel like I need to figure this guy out too?”

 

“I can see that. It’ll be an epic battle of the compulsions, though. His OCD versus your romanticism.”

 

“So, who do you think will win?” I had to ask.

 

“You, of course. You’re way too fucking stubborn to let something like a mere neurological impairment stop you,” my BFF insisted with a smile at me, leaning over to give me a reassuring kiss on my cheek. “Just be gentle with him, Tiger. He has no idea who - or what - he’s gotten himself involved with yet.” Then she took up her own cup of tea and started to head down the hall to her bedroom. “Okay, now I’ve got to tackle about a week’s worth of genetics reading. Wish me luck and if I’m not out by morning, send in a rescue team.”

 

“Luck, Daphy!” I yelled over my shoulder and went back to my computer work, visions of my Mystery Man and my Mystery Building twirling interchangeably in my brain until it had all become one big mystery that I was compelled to paint. 

 

And maybe to solve.

  
  


I was waiting at the door to the computer lab at school the next morning when the geek squad guy who ran it showed up for work. I probably could have gone to Kinko’s and got my photos printed out the night before, but the equipment at school was actually higher quality and the price was definitely better - free. My father already gave me enough shit about wasting my college trust fund on a useless endeavor like art school, dribbling out the pittance he allowed me for living expenses only after I supplied him with a detailed accounting of every single penny I spent every month, and questioning me over any expense he thought was ‘frivolous’. It just wasn’t worth the effort to convince him that I needed to spend $50 on Kinko’s copies when I could get the same prints gratis through school. So, even though my fingers were itching to get started on the painting part of the project, I forced myself to wait to print the pics at school. 

 

I was too happy with the results when they were finally printed to be too upset over the wait, though. The multi-layered look of the old and new drawings on top of the modern full-color picture, was absolutely perfect for what I’d envisioned. This creation was going to end up being a masterwork - or at least that’s what I kept telling myself. Which meant I was in a buoyant mood when I left school and ran the entire way to my building to show off my work to the Mystery Man. I only stopped briefly, to get more coffee for all of us at the Crazy Mocha shop across the street, and then I was there at the lobby door, doing my jiggling and kicking thing till I got the door opened again. Bill met me on the third floor landing and I obediently gave him his cup of creamer, disregarding the fact that he tried to scratch me as I set the container down. And then I was there at the top of the stairs, knocking on my man’s door.

 

“Aren’t you here a bit early?” the bushy-bearded face asked as he cracked open the door. “I didn’t think you were capable of functioning before noon.”

 

“How would you know that?” I asked, although I didn’t dispute his statement of fact, because it was, sorta, true.

 

“You never show up till after lunch,” he explained as he pulled the door wide enough to let me in. 

 

“You’ve seriously been watching me the whole time? Why didn’t you ever let me in?” I held up the coffee I’d brought him but he just tilted his head towards the table, so I set it down there for him before plopping down on the sofa with my own yummy mocha. 

 

“Make yourself at home, why dontcha,”

 

I couldn’t help myself as I gave Mystery Man one of my biggest and brightest smiles. “You didn’t seem to like your vanilla latte yesterday, so I went with caramel today. What do you think?”

 

I watched in silence as he walked over to the table and bent down, giving the drink a sniff. “Delicious.”

 

“You CAN actually drink it too, you know,” I prodded.

 

I could see the involuntary shudder that seemed to overtake him as he thought about what I’d said. “I uh,” he cleared his throat. He was quiet for a moment before he continued. “I’m not so sure I should really trust the guy that keeps on breaking into my house not to poison me.”

 

I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

 

I stood up and walked towards the table where he was still hovering and reached for his cup. “How about if I take a sip of yours to show you that it’s perfectly safe for you to drink?”

 

Just as my hand was about to make contact with the cup, he waved his arms around almost manically and shouted at me, “NO!”

 

I jerked my hand away from the cup and stared at him uncomprehendingly. Apparently he really hadn’t been joking about the poisoning thing. Fuck, this was awkward. I had to think quickly to find something to distract us both from whatever the fuck was going on with the coffee thing.

 

“Urm, sorry . . . I, um . . . Would you like to see what I’ve done so far?” I asked apprehensively, seizing on the only topic I could think of that might get me out of this quagmire.

 

Mystery Man shifted nervously on his feet, his hands desperately trying to find something to occupy themselves with but ending up back in his jeans’ pockets. He gave the faintest nod of his head and I felt myself practically run back to the sofa so I could retrieve the folder where I had stored the photos I’d printed out that morning. I made my way back to the table with my work stretched out in front of me, but the closer I got, the deeper his hands seemed to delve into his pockets. Thinking quickly, I removed the new photos and set them down on the table where he’d be able to see them without having to touch anything. He seemed thankful and maybe a tiny bit less embarrassed as he leaned over to peruse my work. 

 

“Not bad.”

 

I heard myself gasp loudly. “Not bad? Are you kidding me, these are fucking excellent.”

 

The mystery man smiled at me as if he found my blatant arrogance amusing. “How’d you manage to make it look like that. Half the old picture and half your drawing?”

 

Well, he asked, right? So that justified my launching into a very technical and detailed explanation of my photoshop skills, which then led into a full description of the entire project I was engaged in, backed up by a summary of my previous attempts at collage painting, all of which segued nicely into a lecture about the history of multimedia artwork over the ages . . . and I kept talking for, like, twenty hours or something close thereto, before I realized I was babbling on like a total loser and abruptly clamped my mouth shut in total humiliation. Damn I was really NOT good at normal conversations, was I? But it wasn’t my fault. He should have known better than to engage an art student in any discussion of any art-related topic. That’s just common sense, right?

 

“I suppose now’s probably not the best time to tell you I have no idea what ‘Photoshop’ is? Or, anything else you just talked about, for that matter,” he commented with a hint of a condescending smile.

 

“Sorry about that,” I mumbled, “I do tend to . . . go on a bit when talking about my work,” I stated and, without realizing I was doing it, I started to chew at the skin around my nails like I always do when I’m nervous - it’s a nervous habit I’ve had for as long as I can remember.

 

“No problem. I appreciate your enthusiasm. It’s amusing,” he stated, although he didn’t look amused right then; he looked uncomfortable as fuck, his eyes seemingly locked on the hand that I was currently nibbling. 

 

Finally, when it appeared he couldn’t take it any longer, the man leaned over and grabbed a small plastic bottle of hand sanitizer sitting on an end table that I hadn’t noticed before. He mutely offered it to me with a tilt of his head, holding it out with his hand poised over the pump top. I took the hint and stretched my hand out towards him, palm up, allowing him to squirt out a dollop of the clear gel. Then he watched closely as I massaged the gel into my hands - I felt like one of those doctors you see on tv as they scrub in for surgery, washing their hands in a slow methodical process designed so they don’t miss a single spot where germs might hide. Unfortunately, the alcohol in the sanitizer caused my torn cuticle to sting and I hissed at the short but intense pain it caused. 

 

“Sorry,” he apologized as I shook the hand to help dissipate the pain.

 

“No biggie. It just stings a little.”

 

“Serves you right. Don’t you have better things to do with your fingers than stuffing them in your face?”

 

Okay, it’s not my fault that my mind immediately went THERE, right? I mean, you ask any gay man where he wants to stick his fingers and pretty much any one of them is going to have the same reaction? Amirite? But I had only just met this man - a man whose name I still hadn’t remembered to ask, by the way - so I didn’t really know him well enough to give the reply I would normally have given about just what I liked to finger. Fuck, I didn’t even know if he was gay; it was tough to tell considering his general OCD standoffishness. But now that he’d mentioned it, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and I started imagining my fingers doing some truly naughty things, which immediately translated to a rather intense reaction in certain other body parts, and the more I tried to stop it, the worse it got, till I could feel the crotch of my pants stretching tighter and brighter over those excited body parts, and fuck me, I was totally embarrassed but so turned on, and it wasn’t my fault that I had this sudden and almost uncontrollable desire to investigate just how hairy the rest of my Mystery Man was, and why was I such a total horn dog, somebody please stop me, or throw a bucket of cold water over my head or SOMETHING. I hate my life sometimes. I really do. 

 

It was only then that I could feel my Mystery Man’s eyes on me and, holy fuck, that only made things worse. He was looking right at my dick, which got even harder now that it knew it had an audience, and seemed like it was trying to poke its way clear through the material of the Dockers I was wearing that day. I had to do something or in two minutes I’d end up throwing this stranger down on the carpet at my feet and having my way with him. Or letting him have his way with me. At that point I was open to pretty much anything, I was THAT horny. And it really didn’t help matters much that, right at that moment, my eyes wandered down his body and I noticed that even through his loose fitting jeans, I could see he’d sprouted a pretty impressive boner too! Which, I guess, answered the question of whether or not he way gay. But I still didn’t really know him which, for some reason, bothered me all of a sudden.

 

“What’s your name?” I uttered out of absolutely fucking nowhere, my voice sounding at least an octave higher pitched than was seemly.

 

His eyes burned into mine as he looked at me and I could see a slight smirk starting to appear on his face. “What? You mean there’s something you don’t know? I thought you were an expert on everything from Burglary to Bechtle.” 

 

I might have become angry at that but then my host broke into a peal of laughter - real, joyful, belly-rumbling, laughter - and I got the feeling he didn’t laugh nearly often enough, so how could I be mad at him? 

 

“Fine. Don’t tell me your name, then. I’ll just call you . . . I’ll call you, Egbert, instead,” I threatened, joining in with his laughter. 

 

“Egbert? You think I look like an Egbert?” The look of disdain on his face was almost comical.

 

“Yeah, it suits you. Or would you rather I called you, Harry, in honor of your tonsorial choices?”

 

“Did I mention before how annoying you were?”

 

“Several times,” I grinned.

 

“Fine. You can call me ‘Harry’ and I’ll call you ‘Brat’.”

 

I shook my head. “But I told you my name already, it’s Justin.”

 

He shrugged nonchalantly but I could see a glint of humor in his eyes that I hadn’t seen there before and it gave me an unexpectedly huge thrill to think I’d put it there. “I think my name fits you better.” 

 

“Okay, Egbert. If that’s how you want to play it, I’m game. But when my project wins first place and I get put into the end of term showcase at school, you won’t be able to come because your invitation will be under the wrong name. I’ll feel really bad about that, you know, but since it means I’ll get all the attention to myself, I’ll somehow deal with it,” I rejoined with a flirty grin as I gathered up my pictures and shoved the file folder back in my bag. “Now, I’m off to go create my masterpiece. See you later, Egbert!”

 

“Later, Brat.”

 

I was still chuckling over our exchange when I finally made it home and started to set up so I could dive right into my painting. I’d never felt more inspired than I did after my early morning meeting with Harry Egbert. There was just something about that infuriatingly mysterious man that seemed to light my blood and my brain on fire. And it was his sparkling, laughing, hazel eyes instead of the stone and brick of the building that were front and center in my mind as I began to paint. 

  
  


********

[Obsession by Animotion](https://youtu.be/hIs5StN8J-0). [NIMH info about OCD in the US](https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/statistics/obsessive-compulsive-disorder-ocd.shtml) [More about OCD](http://beyondocd.org/ocd-facts/what-causes-ocd). 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what’s everyone’s opinion on our Justin’s stream of consciousness babbling? This is a new writing style for both of your authors so we are just getting used to it ourselves. That’s how the story seems to want to be written tho, so we’re just going for it. It’s not OUR fault Justin’s a bit of a brat and likes to babble... Strangely enough, I think this solitary, lonely Brian rather likes his brats talkative. Also, if you didn’t figure it out yet, this Brian is dealing with some serious OCD - if you want to know more about the condition, you can check out the links at the end of the chapter.. Now, off to obsessively write some more! TAG & Sally.


	6. I'll See You Tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so sweet and funny that you're gonna get a toothache from it. LOL. Enjoy! TAG & Sally

 

Chapter 6 - I’ll See You Tomorrow.

  
  


I didn’t make it back to my building for several days after that because I was absolutely consumed by my painting. I get like that, you know? When I’m in the groove, a half a day can go by without me even noticing, until I find I have to pee like a fire hose and can’t remember the last time I ate. If it weren’t for Daphne insisting that I stop and get at least a few hours of sleep each night, I probably would have died of overexhaustion. But in the end, I was so ecstatic over my work that it was totally worth it.

 

The original project that I’d planned out so meticulously on my computer was difficult to see anywhere on the canvas when I was done. That’s not unusual, though, because when the creative process takes over, you just have to go where it leads you, right? I was used to that outcome. But this picture felt different. It felt organic. Like the multiple layers of pictures and paper and found objects were held together by the paint that I’d lathered on, around, over and under them. It was as if the original project I’d planted on the canvas had grown, with the final work emerging from out of the background of my plan, rising up and filling in the spaces with their own agenda. But it worked. Hell, it was totally amazing.

 

The one thing that totally floored me though - the thing I wasn’t planning for at all - was that, when the painting was done, I found that it wasn’t done at all. I had to go back and add that one more thing. Now, I generally try to resist the ‘one more thing’ impulses. You can easily ‘one more thing’ a great creation into a total nightmare. Most of the time you just need to stop when it’s done and let the thing you created be what it is. But this time, I just couldn’t. It’s like it wasn’t done yet, no matter what my brain was telling me. So I gave in to the impulse, wetting my paintbrush one more time, and diving in with that last touch that . . . Fuck, when it was done, I realized that ‘one more thing’ was really what the entire picture/project/work was all about.

 

Then I stood back and looked at it and smiled.

 

The pictures and scraps of paper and other objects that I’d glued to the canvas were all there - sitting like little islands of clarity amid the swirls of my painting. They were all connected by the larger, more abstract, painting I’d made of the building, which seemed to sit behind the other objects, almost as if they were the windows to my painting of a building. Of course, the painted building was more of a representation of what the building FELT like to me than anything - the pictures and sketches were more direct depictions of the actual building - and it somehow felt more complete than a mere photo would have. But, the part that seemed to draw it all together into that organic whole was the ‘one more thing’ that I added last; the addition of the words to the secret love letter I’d found inside the frame of the old architectural drawing. Those words, painted in a translucent, shimmering, rosy-silver, over the top of everything, were barely visible in some places, yet they were the substance of the whole piece. 

 

‘May this physical edifice I have created match in strength and beauty the spiritual edifice we are building together.’

 

That was how I experienced the building. That was the truth that my mysterious building was trying to tell me. And the triple mystery of the building, the enigmatic man who resided inside, and the implied mystery of that ancient love note, were all tied together into one enticing whole. It was like a Mystery Cubed.

 

“You can’t call the picture, ‘Mystery Cubed’,” Daphne insisted when I finally let her look at my creation. “It’s about a triangle-shaped building. It’s totally confusing to call it a cube. That makes no sense at all.”

 

“It’s not about the shape of the building, it’s about the shape of the mystery underneath. The three different mysteries that draw me to the building,” I tried to explain. “Three mysteries equals mystery cubed.”

 

“I think it’s more of a Mystery Triangulation,” she maintained stubbornly. 

 

“You’re missing the whole point!” I actually stamped my foot in my frustration. 

 

“No, you’re missing the point of the definition of what a cube is.” Daphne is such a damn realist sometimes - she sees the world in black and white and moral certitudes - as opposed to me, the artist, who’s perfectly comfortable with the fact that a triangle can be a cube in some cases.

 

So, after I let out a primal scream at the unfairness of a universe that didn’t understand my brilliant, creative soul, I agreed to change the title of the piece to Mystery Triangulated just to get Daphne to shut the hell up. It was still an amazing painting though, no matter what title you gave it. And she did agree that the words of the letter painted over the top of everything made it special, so I eventually forgave her for interfering with my title. Then we took lots of pictures of the picture before I fell into bed and slept thirteen hours straight.

 

When I finally woke up, it was the middle of the afternoon on Sunday - I felt totally revived and rejuvenated and jubilant as I stretched and lolled in the one beam of fall sunlight that had made its way in through my window. I finally felt like I could peek back into whatever was going on in the real world again, now that my creative frenzie had passed. So, when I’d finished stretching and scratching myself, I began to reaccustom my brain to the outside world again, wondering what I should do next with my brilliant self. To aid in this planning, I dug my phone out from where it was buried under my pillow and started scrolling through the emails and voicemails and other stuff I’d missed.

 

“Shit!” I exclaimed when I listened to the first of about ten voicemail messages left on my phone by Ethan Gold. “I forgot the recital. He’s going to be insufferable . . .”

 

I had meant to call him and offer up the excuse of my concussion in order to get out of going to the recital - because even though it was a ‘Mild’ concussion and hadn’t stopped me from doing anything else I wanted to do, for the purposes of getting out of a date I didn’t want to go on, it was completely debilitating. But, what with my ongoing thing with Harry Egbert and then getting lost in my painting all weekend, I’d totally forgotten all about Ethan. Oops. Ethan was never going to let me live this down. I was probably going to have to do something unconscionable to get him to stop harassing me about this, wasn’t I?

 

I quickly texted him back, giving the excuse of my concussion and fibbing that I hadn’t been able to call him because I had been in soooooo much pain. I hoped he’d buy it. Probably not, though, knowing Ethan. I would probably have to show him the fucking MRI scan before he’d let up. I supposed it was worth it, though, seeing as I hadn’t had to go to his fucking recital.

 

Once I’d deleted all the texts, voicemails and emails from Ethan, however, it looked like the rest of my afternoon was free. I got up, took a shower - which was really, really necessary, seeing as I kind of forgot to bathe when I was painting sometimes, so yeah, by that point I couldn’t stand the smell of myself - threw a load of laundry in the washer and did some tidying up around the area of the living room that served as my ‘studio’ and where Daphne was under strict orders never to venture. I also made a huge pot of pasta which I lazily doctored with my own special faux-sauce mix of olive oil, salt, pepper and italian spices out of a bottle, and called it good. Then I was free for the rest of the evening. 

 

So where was the first place I wanted to go the second I had a spare moment? If you guessed the Triangle Building, you’d have been spot on. Because, of course, I simply had to go see my Harry Egbert and take him the photos of my painting so he could see the end product of all my endeavors. It was his building, after all, that had inspired the work. It really had nothing whatsoever to do with me wanting to see HIM . . . Yeah, right. Who the fuck was I kidding? Whatever. The Mystery Man was definitely next on my agenda.

 

For that afternoon’s coffee selection, I went with a hazelnut syrup. I was determined to find the perfect coffee for my Harry Egbert that would finally tempt him to actually taste the coffee rather than just sniff at it. Didn’t Torani make about a thousand different syrups? One of them was bound to appeal to my Mystery Man, right? And, in the meantime, it was rather fun to try and think up new combinations of coffee for him. Maybe I’d move on to the mochas next, if I couldn’t find a latte he liked. 

 

So, laden with a mocha for myself, a Hazelnut Latte for my man, and the usual half & half creamer for Bill the Cat, I trotted across the street to my building. I knocked, of course, but didn’t expect any answer, so I didn’t wait more than thirty seconds or so before I broke in again. I was actually getting quite good at the kicking and wiggling the door thing. Who needed a key, anyway?

 

“Hey there, William. Did you miss me?” I asked as the resident guard cat hissed at me in welcome. “You do know that we are going to end up great friends, right? I tend to grow on people. And cats. Trust me, before long you’ll be so excited to see me when I arrive you’ll start wagging your tail and yipping in happiness like a dog.” Bill did not look at all amused by my prediction that he’d turn into a disgusting dog and hissed at me even louder than usual. But then he saw his creamer and forgot to be angry as he lapped up the yummy goodness. 

 

“You’re going to make him fat.”

 

I was surprised by the voice coming from the stairwell behind me. My Harry Egbert hadn’t ever ventured that far downstairs to greet me before. Well, except for that first night when I didn’t even make it up the first flight of stairs before he startled me and I fell. Was my man excited to see me or something? Mystery Man looked very dapper that evening, actually. He appeared to have tried to do something with the mop on his head to make it look more like hair than a bush. It was combed out and slicked back out of his eyes, at least. He might have even attempted to trim the beard a little. I approved of the improvements and the look I gave him probably conveyed that sentiment since Egbert smiled back at me with more candor than was usual for him. 

 

“Bill and I have an understanding,” I ventured to explain. “I bribe him with treats and he agrees not to claw or bite me. It works for us, so don’t knock it.”

 

“Is that why you keep bringing me coffee too? Bribing me so I don’t report your burglar ass to the police?” Egbert asked, and I could already see his nose twitching as he sniffed the air to see what was in his cup that day. 

 

“Whatever works, right? Besides, I’m determined to find a coffee you’ll actually taste someday. I’ve always liked a challenge and you definitely qualify. So, what do you say? Wanna take a sip? It’s hazelnut . . .” I waved the drinks caddy from side to side just out of his reach and thought for about a half a heartbeat that he might actually accept the cup that night. But when he hesitated, shoving his hands back in his pockets, I relented. “Not a hazelnut fan, huh? No worries. I’ll keep trying.” I gave him one of my best smiles to make sure he knew I wasn’t upset or anything, and he seemed to relax a bit more. “So, I finished my painting of your building. Wanna see it?”

 

My man shrugged, but I could see that he was more interested than he seemed by the way he so eagerly tilted his head towards the stairs. I had soooo won him over. Piece of cake; coffee or no coffee, he was already putty in my capable, artistic hands. Or at least that was what I was thinking to myself as I boldly led the way upstairs. Except, when we reached the top floor, he cleared his throat before I could reach for the handle of the door into his rooms and instead led me down the hallway towards another, more elaborately decorated door, which he pulled open to reveal an office that looked like it was right out of a late Victorian novel. 

  
  


“Now this is was I was talking about!” I raved, walking inside as I marvelled over the cozy little office space, the original, built-in bookcases, the secretary’s desk against the far wall, not to mention the antique drafting table that took up much of the floor space in the center of the room. “This is so dope! It’s better than I could have hoped for. I can’t believe that this much of it has been kept in its original condition. Most of these older buildings have been renovated so much that they’ve lost all their flair. This is amazing though.”

 

“It was my Grandfather’s office. He didn’t like change much so he kept it exactly the same as it was the day he bought the building,” Egbert announced, standing off to the side and out of my way while I wandered around. “I thought you might like to see it. You said you wanted to sketch some of the interior, right? Although, now that you’re done with your project . . .”

 

“Project, schmoject! I love this building. I love this room. I can still draw it and, best of all, I get to keep this sketch just for myself,” I declared, taking up a seat in an old, velvet-upholstered wingback chair next to the drafting table and sitting the coffees down so I could dig in my bag for the necessary drawing supplies. “I’ll need a model though, so, if you’ll be so kind, Mr. Egbert, as to take your coffee over to the desk there and pose for me . . .”

 

I pretended to busy myself getting my drawing pad ready and selecting a pencil from the case so as not to seem like I was staring at him as he hesitated to react to my request. I could see him out of my peripheral vision and it was almost comical the way he reached out towards the cup, then withdrew his hand, and then reached out again - not that I’d ever laugh at him for what was very obviously a struggle. Finally, though, on his third try I saw him pick up the cup, holding it with only the very tips of his fingers, and then carrying it over to the desk where he placed it on the leather-bound blotter and immediately took out a small bottle of hand sanitizer which he used to dowse his hands with. It was a start though, right? And when Egbert was done cleansing his hands, he leaned over and took an extra-long whiff of the hazelnut coffee, getting a sorta dreamy look on his face in the process. Oh, yeah, I was definitely wearing him down. 

 

“Okay. Try to look busy. And Victorian,” I ordered as I took up my drawing pad and started to put down a rough outline of the scene.

 

“Look Victorian? I’ll do my best.” 

 

With a captivating little chuckle I saw my man pick up a gorgeous, vintage fountain pen that seemed to be made of amber. He held it over the blotter, pretending like he was going to be writing something. He looked very official. And, with his hair slicked back that way and the voluminous facial hair, he actually looked a lot like one of the founding fathers of Pittsburgh who might have once occupied this room. He was the perfect model, actually. 

  
  


It didn’t take me long at all to scratch out a nicely detailed drawing of the room with my man sitting at the desk. If I didn’t know better myself, I would swear it was a period piece. He looked so natural in that setting. I quickly took out my phone, snapped a picture of my drawing for posterity, and then tore the sketch out of the book. 

 

“Here. You can keep this one. I’ll make a more detailed version for myself when I get home,” I offered, letting the picture rest on the drafting table so he could retrieve it later. “It turned out pretty fabulous, if I do say so myself. Thanks for bringing me in here to see the room. I’m impressed.”

 

“No biggie. I figured you’d like it,” he replied, setting the old pen down. 

 

Then he opened up one of the little doors on the antique desk, took out what appeared to be a little packet of wet wipes, and without looking up at me, he quickly used the wipe to swab at the coffee cup, the lid and his fingers one last time. I couldn’t help the swell of pride I felt on his behalf when he proceeded to pick up the coffee cup afterwards. I was sure that something like that couldn’t be easy for someone with his level of OCD. Daphne had been doing some extra research on the issue since I explained what was up with my Mystery Man, and had relayed some tidbits to me about the condition, so I was feeling much more educated about what the guy had to be going through. And it might not seem like much to your average joe, but for someone with his issues, merely picking up an unknown coffee cup had to be a mind-blowing struggle. So, yeah, I was proud of my man. Sue me. When he held the cup up so he could breathe in more of the hazelnut-scented coffee, I almost cheered for him.

 

To distract us both from the momentousness of the moment, I fished around for a topic of conversation that wouldn’t be so stressful. “So, you said this was your Grandfather’s office?”

 

Apparently that wasn’t the right topic though - not if I was going for non-stressful. Mystery Man put the coffee cup back down and started to fidget. He was rubbing his hands against his pants legs, his foot jiggling nervously, and then he started to fiddle with the objects on the desk, taking out another of his wet wipes as he pulled each item in the desk out, wiped it off, and then returned it to its correct spot, ensuring everything was in complete alignment with each other. 

 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up an unpleasant topic,” I apologized quickly.

 

“It’s . . . It’s nothing. My grandfather was . . . a difficult man. Well, difficult for me, at least. Everybody else seemed to love him, I guess. Donnie was almost like a legend in Pittsburgh back in the day.”

 

“Donnie?” That name triggered a memory from my project. “Would that be, Donal Byrne, by any chance? I came across his name when I was researching this building. He was the registered owner until about a decade ago. I wondered about him, but since wasn’t the current owner I didn’t think to do any further research on him.”

 

Egbert cleared his throat a couple of times before answering. “That’s him,” he confirmed. “The old bastard. May he rot for all eternity in whatever hell might be out there.”

 

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, completely embarrassed for having brought up such a difficult topic and not sure where to go from there. 

 

“Don’t be. You didn’t even know him,” Brian replied before completely changing the subject, for which we were both grateful. “So, you said you finished your project? Did it turn out the way you wanted it to?”

 

“It turned out better!” I expounded, taking out my phone again to show him the pictures I’d taken of the finished canvas. “See for yourself.”

 

Egbert seemed quite taken by the end result and my ego swelled several sizes as he looked at the pictures, even asking me to make them bigger at times so he could see certain details better. I started to explain some of the various techniques I’d employed and why I’d added some of the different elements.

 

“I like this part,” he said, his finger shaking slightly as he pointed towards a particularly detailed part of my painting that incorporated some of the details from the cornice work of the building.

 

I beamed once again. Having him like my work meant a lot to me; which was odd, because usually, as long as I liked my work I didn’t care so much what others thought. But all of a sudden it mattered what THIS guy thought. That was different. It made me uncomfortable, but uncomfortable in a good way, maybe. I’d have to think on why, exactly, that was. Later, though, because I was too busy bragging to my man to worry on it right then.

 

“. . . Yeah. So, I’m pretty happy with how it turned out and all,” I summarized when it seemed like we’d talked the painting to death finally. “Now I just have to hope that my professor agrees when I turn it in tomorrow.”

 

“So, as of tomorrow, you’re done with the project?” Egbert asked, sounding a little disappointed by that prospect. 

 

“Yeah. Which is good, too, because I have to get started on studying for finals for my other classes, all of which I put off while I was working on this monster.” When Mystery Man looked away, seeming to hesitate about whatever it was he’d been about to say, I felt like I’d said something wrong. So, to backtrack I asked, “why? Was there something else? Something you think I missed?”

 

“No. No, nothing like that,” he stumbled over whatever it was he meant to say for a moment or two until it seemed like he just decide to blurt it out. “It’s just that, when you seemed interested in that old letter and the drawing, I remembered that my grandfather had a file of old records he kept that he’d found when he bought the building, and I thought you might be interested in looking through them. But, if you’re done with the project, I guess you wouldn’t be interested . . .”

“No! . . . I mean, yeah, I’m finished with the project, but I would definitely love to take a look at whatever you’ve found. Really . . . if you’re okay with that?”

 

He looked relieved when I insisted I was still interested and I watched as he unlocked one of the drawers of his desk and pulled out a huge leather binder, filled to the brim with ageing looking papers. I was surprised that the file was one of the least clean things in the entire building. There might have even been some dust on the jacket of the folder. But, since it was dust that had been in the building for a while, as opposed to dust that came from some stranger outside, maybe it was safe enough, because my man just swiped at it perfunctorily with one of his wipes and then seemed good.

  
  


He placed the folder on the desk and pushed it towards me. “Here, knock yourself out.”

 

I paused briefly before making my way over, running my hand over the smooth leather, it was so soft. “Wow.”

 

“You can . . .” He cleared his throat once again. “You can take it home with you to have a look through if you’d like. I just . . . I need it back.” 

 

I couldn’t seem to control my face around this man, I don’t think I’d smiled this much in years. He was basically inviting me back! Well, that’s what I was taking from it anyway. “You know, I might have questions while I’m looking through this stuff. If I can’t figure it out, maybe I could come back and you could go over it with me? You might know more about the history, after all,” I suggested.

 

He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, like it didn’t bother him either way, but I knew that he liked my suggestion. “Sure. I could make time,” he replied, trying to sound all cool and unconcerned even though I could detect a smile hiding in that beard of his. “I’m . . . I’m not busy tomorrow afternoon.”

 

I wondered when he was ever busy, seeing as he didn’t seem to ever leave the building, but I didn’t think our relationship was ready for that line of questioning yet. “Sounds great. I should be done with classes by around three tomorrow. How about I come back after that?”

 

“Okay,” he agreed readily enough. “Although, I suspect this is probably the first time in history someone invited their burglar to come back for more.”

 

“I’m not a burglar. Just . . .”

 

“Just a brat. I know,” he teased me with that glint of humor in his eyes that I was starting to get to like. 

 

“Good thing you like brats, huh?” I replied, because, yeah, I WAS a brat and as a brat I wasn’t about to let him get the last word like that. Then I picked up the binder full of documents and my bag and started for the door before he could say anything more. “See you tomorrow, Egbert.

 

“Later, Brat.”

 

In my head I was already planning out what I’d say when I saw my Mystery Man the following day as I galloped down the stairs and out the lobby doors. I felt a little giddy - which was a word you really don’t understand until it happens to you, but which I now totally GOT, because I felt giddy as a fucking school girl and that was really pathetic, I know, but it was how I felt so deal with it, okay - and as a result I wasn’t really paying any attention to anything around me as I trotted across Liberty Avenue on the way to my usual bus stop. No wonder, then, that I was caught off guard when I felt a pair of arms wrapping themselves around my waist from behind and moist words whispering in my ear.

 

“Caught ya!”

 

I spun around, fighting against the tight grip that held onto me as I turned, only to find that my captor was none other than The Feckless Fiddler himself - Ethan Gold. 

 

“What are you doing here, Ethan?” I demanded, probably sounding more angry than I should have, but I hated to be snuck up on like that.

 

“I was on my way to Heinz Hall - I’ve got another performance this evening - and I saw you coming out of that building across the street,” he explained, finally letting go of me but not till I literally peeled his hands off my body. “At first I thought I must be mistaken, because your text made it sound like you couldn’t get out of bed due to your concussion. But it really IS you, isn’t it? Are you feeling better?”

 

“Uh . . . Um, a little,” I hedged, totally kicking myself mentally because I knew I was caught. “I slept more than twelve hours last night and I think it helped because I finally felt good enough to get up this afternoon.” Well, it was mostly true, right? 

 

“That’s great news. If you’re feeling better, I can still get you a ticket to tonight’s performance. I really missed having you there last night.”

 

“I don’t think I’m feeling THAT good, Ethan,” I quickly answered, thinking up the best lie I could on the spot. “I only came out to feed a friend’s cat, actually. And now that I’ve accomplished that, I’m heading straight home. I’m still not supposed to be doing too much - doctor’s orders, you know.” 

 

“That’s too bad,” Ethan’s face fell so fast it was comical, but I just couldn’t be bothered to feel sorry for him. 

 

“Yeah, sorry. Well, I have to go or I’ll miss my bus,” I declared, trying to edge away from him. 

 

“At least let me walk you to your bus stop. In case you get dizzy or something,” Ethan insisted, insinuating his arm through mine with a proprietary air. “Come on. I’ll make sure you to the bus safely. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, you know.”

 

And that’s how I ended up getting ‘helped’ to my bus by my stalker, when what I really wanted to do was get rid of him already so I could go back to the happy place that I’d been in when I left my Harry Egbert just a few minutes earlier. Annoying, egotistical fiddlers are the WORST, aren’t they? At least I didn’t have to go to his concert that evening. It made me even more thankful to my Mystery Man for the concussion. I was so grateful, in fact, that I couldn’t help looking back at the building as I was being led away, thinking to send some ‘thank you’ vibes to my savior. So it wasn’t a surprise when I saw a familiar, bearded face watching out of the third floor window on the western point of the triangle. 

  
********

[ I'll See You Tomorrow by The Manhattans ](https://youtu.be/vsXUIoY0bo4) . 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our Harry Egbert is coming out of his shell and Justin’s just the person to drag him kicking and screaming into tomorrow, don’t you think? The story is now reaching that fun stage where scenes start practically writing themselves, so we’re thrilled and happy that we’ve now exceeded our NaNo target for the week. Go, us. Thanks to everyone reading and providing us the incentive to keep writing. Happy reading, all! TAG & Sally.
> 
> PS. I personally LOVE my line about, ‘the artist, who’s perfectly comfortable with the fact that a triangle can be a cube in some cases’. I thought that one up in the shower this morning. And if you don’t think it’s wonderful too, I’ll fight you! LOLOLOL! TAG


	7. A Woman Scorned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More from Egbert & Brat... Enjoy! TAG & Sally

 

Chapter 7 - A Woman Scorned.

  
  


I had a very hard time sitting through all my classes the next day. I had enlisted Daphne’s help to drive me and my canvas to school before she had to head off to work - it had been almost too large for the back of her car, but thankfully she drove one of those Hybrid-SUV type things that seemed to be bigger on the inside than they were on the outside, and we managed to wedge it in on the diagonal without damage - but after I’d turned that in to my Art & Architecture professor, I hadn’t had anything else I needed to do for several hours. I tried to study for one of my upcoming exams, but I found it difficult to concentrate. So, instead of just going through the motions on my schoolwork, I pulled out the file of old building records that my Mystery Man had given me and started to leaf through that.

 

For the most part it was pretty dry stuff. There were old invoices detailing expenditures for building maintenance, receipts for rents paid by long-lost tenants, and some odds and ends that I found even less relevant. It looked like old Donal - or maybe his predecessor, whoever it was who’d compiled these records - had been ridiculously thorough in keeping pretty much every shred of paperwork ever generated about the building, as evidenced by the dates on the bills, some of which went back to 1886. I got a bit of a thrill as I leafed through all this ephemera - it made me feel like I was somehow delving into the lives of these people who’d lived so long ago. It didn’t matter that the subject matter of the papers was tedious, even the boring payment receipts seemed to draw me into that forgotten world. The smell of the old, wrinkled paper was weirdly addictive, and I found myself sniffing it as I leafed through the mountain of paperwork spread out around me. 

 

But, even while I was indulging my more romantic side by wading through all those old records, I was repeatedly interrupted by the nagging pull of modernity. Now, don’t get me wrong - I LOVE my technology. Most of the time I can’t bear to be without my phone. I have to have it on me at all times; if it’s not in my hand it’s in my pocket or lying next to me on whatever piece of furniture is closest. The one day it accidentally fell out of my jacket pocket when Daph was giving me a lift to school was, like, the longest day of my life. I felt so lost. I couldn’t even log into my regular apps on the school computers because I needed my phone for the two-factor authorization, so I just wandered around all day being grumpy and lashing out at anyone who tried to cheer me up. But just then, though, I really didn’t want to be bothered by the real world. I WANTED to revel in the past. To pretend for a short while that I was part of the city’s Victorian era. To imagine away all the hustle and bustle and stress of the present day. So I couldn’t help but groan every time my cell phone beeped or buzzed that morning. And it was even more annoying because I knew without even looking that all the messages, texts and calls were most likely from my personal stalker, Ethan. How obvious do I have to be to get my point across - I’m NOT interested, Buddy. Back off already.

 

Anyway, I eventually gave up and turned my phone off altogether in order to get some peace and quiet. I seriously thought about outright blocking Ethan’s number, but that would probably only embolden him to come track me down in person. This was starting to get ridiculous though. Maybe Daphne and I needed to brainstorm an effective Ethan Resistance Force Plan or something. Ghosting him obviously wasn’t working. Daphne would probably just order me to grow a pair already and tell him off, but . . . well, it might actually come to that if he kept up with this crap. But whatever. 

 

So I immersed myself in the past and ignored both Ethan and my school work for most of the morning, only popping back into the present to go to my classes when needed. As soon as I was done with school, however, I was more than ready to be out of there. I quickly hopped on a bus and made my way back to the Triangle Building so that Egbert and I could finish going through the files together. So far nothing out of the ordinary had jumped out at me, but there was still lots left to look through and I was looking forward to having my man around to help me with the looking. 

 

After stopping off at Crazy Mocha and grabbing my usual mocha along with a blueberry muffin - because lunch had been, like, hours earlier and I was bordering on hangry - I decided I’d try my man on something a little different today. I mean, he hadn’t even touched any of the lattes I’d brought him, so I figured I needed to get a little more creative. Rather than trying just another flavor of latte, though, I opted for a nice, smooth, flat white espresso. I figured what the hell, right? I was bound to wear him down eventually.

 

After talking to Daphne, The Psychology Maven, about it, Harry Egbert’s rejection of my coffee offerings made a lot more sense - she’d posited that my man was probably extremely germophobic, which explained the compulsive hand washing thing. This apparently went along with the OCD. Having someone else make a drink for him, especially if that drink was prepared out of his sight, was probably just too much for him to deal with. Daph recommended that I not give up, though. She said I should keep on bringing coffee drinks with me just as I had been, so as not to treat him any differently now that I knew what was up. According to Daph, the mere fact Egbert kept showing interest in the drinks, sniffing at them and even picking up the cup the way he had the day before, indicated that he was trying to get past his issues. And if he wasn’t giving up trying, neither was I. 

 

So, there I was with my mocha in one hand and Egbert's flat white in the other (the shop was out of paperboard drink caddies that day, wouldn’t you know), with my muffin balancing precariously on top of my cup and Bill’s creamer on top of Egbert’s cup. I was hoping that, like the day before, I would be met halfway down the stairs by my big hairy Mystery Man, otherwise my juggling act was going to become ridiculous, but those hopes were quickly dashed when nobody came to let me in after I knocked at the door with my foot for a good minute and a half. With a sigh, I set all my goodies down on the sidewalk so I could do my burglar impression with the door. At least the cat came down to greet me as soon as I entered the lobby. I opened Bill’s creamer but didn’t even wait to see if he’d find it as I raced to the stairs and headed up as quickly as I could with two scorching drinks in my hand. 

 

I made it up the five flights of stairs with only slightly singed fingers and knocked on the door to Egbert’s rooms, feeling myself bouncing from side to side as I eagerly waited for the door to open. It took a while, a lot longer than it usually did, surprisingly, and for a brief moment I panicked that something might have happened to him. But just as I was picturing what I’d do if some awful accident had befallen my man - because my mind was already going there despite the fact that it was a bit nuts to think Egbert would have somehow gotten himself into trouble in the safety of his own home, and, yeah, I’ve seen way too many bad horror movies, and I also have a mother who would constantly warn me about the dangers of everyday household objects, so I’m constitutionally and genetically inclined to always expect the worst, and that’s just my thing, you know, so deal with it, okay - the door was answered, and there he was in all of his mysteriously hairy glory.

 

“Hey,” I beamed, waving the coffee vaguely towards his nose - or as near as he’d allow me. “I didn’t bring you anything fancy this time, just a flat white, since it seems maybe you aren’t a flavored syrup kinda guy. What do you say?”

 

But he didn’t say anything, actually, and just stood there glaring at me, which was not the welcome I’d expected. 

 

Suddenly the air felt thick, and I wondered what I had done to fuck up so badly. Had I accidentally touched him? Had I said something offensive? I was desperately running back over my greeting in my mind, wondering what I could have said or done, but I couldn’t think of anything that would cause him to react the way he was. What the actual fuck? 

 

“You okay?” I asked nervously. 

 

He didn’t answer. Instead he just turned around and walked away, leaving me standing in the doorway. I followed him inside and placed our drinks on the table. He did the whole, back turned to me while he ignored my presence thing again, and I felt like we’d lost significant ground. It did not escape my attention that he hadn’t tried the hair combing thing today either. In fact, he looked even more bedraggled than usual. This was NOT a good sign.

 

“Have I . . . Have I done something to upset you?” I asked, having no idea what I could have done between last night and now, but clearly something wasn’t right. 

 

Egbert cleared his throat a good four or five times, and I watched in silence as he painstakingly straightened everything on the counter in front of him, moving things just millimeters until he felt comfortable with what he’d done. 

 

“I brought the folder back with me. I thought maybe we could go through it together? I looked through it a bit today between classes but I haven’t reviewed everything properly.” I took out the file and put it on the table next to the waiting drinks, sitting down in my usual place on the sofa. “You wanna come join me over here, big guy?”

 

“I saw you at the bus stop,” was his nonsensical response.

 

“What?”

 

“At the bus stop,” he maintained cryptically.

 

“Huh?”

 

“The bus stop,” he repeated, getting even more agitated and running his hands through his hair, but all without turning to look at me still. “. . . that guy . . .” he added, rearranging the storage jars, coffee cups and the spare notepad sitting on the spotless tile surface yet again. 

 

What was he talking about? What guy? And why would seeing me at the the bus stop with some guy cause my Egbert to go off the deep end into the big, scary OCD pool of worry where he seemed to be drowning? It took me a good three or four minutes to figure it out, to be honest, because whatever he seemed to be referring to was something that hadn’t even made a blip in my own personal radar. 

 

“Curls,” Egbert blurted out, pulling at his own, slightly wiry hair. “The one with the curly hair . . .” 

 

It was only after Egbert started gesturing wildly at his own hair that I twigged as to what the hell he was talking about. “Ohhhhhh! You mean Ethan? The guy I ran into yesterday as I was leaving here?”

 

Egbert shrugged his shoulders and mumbled quietly. “How would I know what the little twerp was named?”

 

The resentment in Egbert’s tone still had me a little confused but at least I thought I understood who he meant now. He’d obviously been watching me as I left the evening before and seen me run into the ever-annoying Ethan. But why that would agitate my personal hermit so much, was still a little unclear. 

 

“You didn’t say you had a boyfriend,” Egbert added, sounding so hurt and accusatory. “I should have known . . .”

 

“. . . Boyfriend? Ethan? Oh, fuck no! No, no, no, no, no,” I was almost as offended by the suggestion that I would have anything to do with Ethan as my man seemed to be. “Urgh! Definitely, not. He’s just this annoying guy who won’t leave me alone, actually. I made the mistake of hooking up with him once, like, a thousand years ago, and now he won’t go away. He’s not even my type.”

 

“He seemed to think he was your type,” Egbert insisted, still not turning around to look at me. “Or do you just let anyone grope you and kiss you . . .”

 

That got me laughing, because it sooooo wasn’t how I’d seen that brief interchange. “Well, I’m always up for a good groping, you know . . .” I started to tease my man, relenting only when I saw the way my words caused his shoulders to tense up. “I’m just kidding, Eggy. Seriously. I don’t have ANY interest in Ethan. He was just a single pringle, if you know what I mean.”

 

“So he’s not your boyfriend?”

 

I walked over to the counter that Egbert was still busy reorganizing and stood next to him, shoulder to shoulder, resting my elbows on the edge of the countertop, close enough that we were almost, but not quite, touching. “Nope. He’s definitely not my boyfriend,” I assured him, and then without even thinking about it, I bumped his shoulder with mine.

 

My taller friend tensed up the instant our bodies touched, and for a moment I thought I’d fucked things up. Bumping shoulders like that was something Daph and I do all the time, so I hadn’t even really thought about it. But, after a moment, I heard him sigh and I could feel his body relax next to mine. That’s when the fidgeting he’d been doing up till then finally ceased altogether.

 

“I thought . . .” he started, only to have his words falter. But then it was like he got a second wind of courage and finished his thought. “I thought you might forget to come today after seeing you with that guy. I couldn’t hear what he was saying but I saw him watching as you walked out of the building and he looked unhappy. Like he disapproved of you coming here, or some shit. So, I . . . I thought maybe he was your boyfriend and he might tell you not to come back today,” he confessed. 

 

“Fuck that. Even if Ethan WAS my boyfriend - which he most certainly is NOT and never will be - I would never let him or anyone else tell me what to do or who to be friends with,” I rushed to reassure my poor, insecure Eggy. “I WANTED to come here today, Egbert. I couldn’t wait to get done with classes so I could come here and go through these records with you. Trust me, this building and its mysteries are far more interesting than anything else I’ve got on my schedule, so it’s not like it’s a hardship for me to come by or anything. Got it?” 

 

It took my reclusive friend a second or two to internalize my words. Watching his face as he listened to what I was saying and then slowly came to accept that I was being truthful, was kind of revealing. This was a man who didn’t trust easily. It wasn’t just the OCD stuff, either. He didn’t trust anything; germs, people, or even words. I had no idea what was in his past that had caused him to be this way, but the result was that my man was very careful with confidences. And to see him finally accepting me and that I might WANT to spend time with him, something that I could tell he felt was definitely not a given, made me even more certain that I wanted to be right there, where I was at. If ever there was someone who needed a friend, it was my Eggy. He just took a little while to grow on you, you know? But once you got past that prickly exterior . . . well, I still wasn’t one hundred percent sure what I would find underneath all that, but I was intrigued enough to at least want to find out. 

 

“Got it,” he echoed, getting so bold as to lean over and shoulder bump me back. “So, what did you find in there so far?”

 

“Well, I found that, back in 1892 it cost only $5 to have the roof patched and a whopping $55 to get new gas lamp fittings installed on the exterior of the building,” I answered him with a smile as I returned to the couch and undid the ties holding the binder of papers closed. “But other than that, not much. What I really wanted to find was something that would tell us who the mysterious ‘B’ was from that letter we found the other day.”

 

I started to rifle through the papers, speeding past the stuff I’d already scanned, and only slowing when I reached some new stuff. A little while later, Egbert joined me on the sofa, looking over my shoulder as I turned pages. He took out one of his wet wipes and applied it to the outside of the flat white cup I’d brought him, holding up the steamy goodness so he could inhale the rich coffee aroma. I smiled encouragingly at him but he still didn’t do anything more than sniff at the cup. My own mocha was long gone but I hadn’t yet finished stuffing my face with the blueberry muffin I’d purchased for my snack, and I was still starving, so I didn’t slow down even though I could see it was hard for him to be around me while I ate. He did his best to try and stop himself from moving away, even while I saw him cringe at every crumb that tumbled from my lips. Okay, so maybe I hadn’t thought through the muffin part of this visit all that well, huh?

 

“Sorry,” I mumbled once I’d finished my last mouthful. “I skipped breakfast this morning cuz I overslept and was almost late turning in my project and lunch didn’t quite fill the void,” I prattled on, hoping that would explain why I’d demolished my baked good in three huge bites. 

 

He said nothing, but smiled softly as he settled more comfortably onto the seat cushion next to mine - still careful enough to ensure there was a reasonable distance between us - and resolutely ignored the crumbs I’d dropped on his carpet with a good grace. 

 

Egbert sat playing with the hairs of his beard for a few minutes after that, studying me quietly. “You eat like you talk,” he suddenly blurted out of nowhere. 

 

What did that even mean? “Huh?” I asked, feeling my nose scrunch up in confusion. 

 

“I just mean . . . you’re very . . . enthusiastic, is all,” he explained, sounding shyly sincere, and then breaking into hesitant laughter over his observation. 

 

I laughed along with him because what he’d said was so fricken true and something my close friends had always teased me about. Hell, Daphne still says I’m bouncier than Tigger on steroids. “I guess I’m easily excited,” I grinned happily. 

 

It felt SO good to be like this with him, almost teasing each other, you know? It felt right. And did I mention that, when he smiled, his eyes glittered a brighter shade of green? It was very distracting, actually, and I almost forgot the file of paper I had been leafing through as the pretence for my visit, until one of the pages fell out of my hands and lazily drifted down to land on the floor under the table and brought me back to reality. I picked up the errant scrap of paper and added it to the others I’d already pulled out of the file, which was lying open on the coffee table in front of us. Then I focused my attention on my work and started to sort things into piles so as to try and make sense of it all. 

 

“I only very briefly went through some of these, this morning.” I explained. “So far it's all been pretty boring, but we still have about a bazillion pages to look through. Maybe we’ll find something other than a receipt,” I laughed. “You wanna go through these?” I asked, holding out a bunch of papers towards him, then watching as his eyes darted from my hand back up to my face. 

 

“I, uh,” Egbert cleared his throat again - a habit I’d come to recognize was something he did when he felt uncomfortable or put on the spot. “It’s not that I don’t want to . . .” Once again his eyes met mine and I could tell he was struggling to say what it was that he needed to say. “I want to. I really want to.” He started frantically rubbing his palms up and down his legs. “It’s just . . .”

 

“I know,” I said, hoping my acknowledgment would give him the courage he needed to finish what he was saying. 

 

He nodded. “I have this thing . . . Obsessive Compulsive Disorder . . .”

 

“I thought so,” I smiled as I said it, so he’d know I was okay with what he’d just revealed, and from the gigantic sigh he breathed it was obvious it was a huge weight lifted from his shoulders. “My roommate, Daphne, is studying to be a doctor, so she knows all about this stuff and when I asked her about it, she explained a little about what it means. I didn’t realize OCD was such a common thing until she told me about it, though.”

 

“A doctor, huh? Well, at least she didn’t just come right out and tell you that I was crazy. It wouldn’t be the first time someone said that to me,”

 

I shook my head. “Who’s the asshole that would say something like that to you?”

 

“My grandfather . . .” Mystery Man answered with a bite of contempt for the man he referenced. “He used to give me shit about how ‘finicky’ I was. Called me a ‘sissy boy’ even. Little did he know that wasn’t the only reason for calling me a sissy.” He chuckled quietly to himself over whatever memory he was looking at inside his head and then gave me a very flirty sideways glance to prove his point. 

 

“Personally, I LOVE sissy boys. Of course, I’m the biggest sissy boy of all time, so I’m biased,” I grinned back at him. “Messy but sissy.”

 

My Eggy seemed reassured by the fact that I wasn’t making a big deal out of the OCD thing and he seemed to relax even more. I liked that. Underneath that twitchy exterior, I thought I could see glimpses of someone who was smart, honest, and kind - someone that I would love to get to know better. I liked the sparks of flirtiness that sometimes made it through his more standoffish exterior. And, in a strange way, I found him to be incredibly brave, which is probably an odd thing to say about somebody who was afraid of germs and touching and probably hadn’t been outside this building in a decade, but the way he was facing up to that reality with me, almost a stranger, was pretty fucking brave, if you asked me. It was like there was this entirely different person inside him that was just dying to get out - a person that was incredibly attractive in so many ways - and if he could only get past the obstacle of his phobias, then he could let that person shine. So, of course, a die-hard romantic like me wouldn’t be able to resist the pull of a man like that. It was like I simply HAD to find the answer, the solution, the way to draw him out so I could finally see the real man he was hiding behind that bushy beard and forbidding exterior. I couldn’t help myself. I was just a total sucker for that kind of draw, you know. And fuck you if you think I’m pathetic for actually being all empathic and caring, because I don’t plan to change any time soon.

 

“So, what have you got there?” Eggy asked, pointing with his untasted cup of coffee to the piles I was organizing, redirecting my attention back to my work, thankfully, before all my grinning and romanticizing got totally out of hand. 

 

“I was just trying to organize things a little,” I explained. “I’m putting maintenance and repair receipts over here, rental receipts here, and other stuff in this pile. And, within each pile, I’ll organize them into date order with the oldest stuff on the bottom . . .”

 

So we spent about the next twenty minutes or so pulling all the documents out of the file and organizing them. Eggy suggested a couple of sub-piles to make things a little clearer, which I went along with. We didn’t come across anything earth shattering, though, until we’d pulled pretty much everything out of the leather binder. Then, just before I was ready to toss the empty folio aside, I noticed that there was an extra little pocket in the back cover. It didn’t look like there was anything in there, but just to be sure, I poked my hand inside and, low and behold, I found an old, timeworn, battered-looking envelope hiding back there. 

 

“What have we here?” I pondered as I turned the envelope over in my hands and noted the name ‘Jay’ written on the face in an elegant cursive script. 

 

Eggy was already leaning towards me, squinting a little as he tried to see better, when I pulled out the flap from where it had been tucked inside and upended the whole thing. Two things fell out out of the envelope: a sheet of rose-colored note paper and a thin, gold band. I managed to stop the ring before it rolled off the table, picking it up so I could examine it more closely. It was a beautiful band, etched with a complex hatchwork pattern around the outside, turning the relatively simple gold band into a real work of art. On the inner surface of the ring there was some engraving in letters so small I could barely read it: ‘J & A ❤ 1878’.

  
  


“Okay, so now we have a mysterious ‘B’ along with an equally mysterious ‘J’ and an ‘A’ to boot. Before we’re done we might have the whole alphabet,” my man joked. 

 

I was already too busy reading the note that had come along with the ring, though, to respond. And boy-howdy, what a note it was, too. I certainly was not ready for what I found there.

 

“Shit! Read this,” I laid the piece of stationary down on the table so that Eggy could read what I’d just found without him having to touch anything.

 

‘My Once Dear Jay, 

 

I simply can not bear this heart-wrenching shame and I refuse to live the lie you have made out of our sacred wedding vows. However, since I pledged, ‘Till Death Do Us Part’, and I refuse to be forsworn, as you have already been since you violated our marriage bed, that leaves us only one remaining option. And, because your cowardice knows no bounds, I will, of necessity, have to be the brave one for the both of us. May my death provide you with whatever solace is still available to you as you pursue the relentless ruination of your soul.

 

Yours in Scorn and Betrayal,

 

Alma’

 

“Wow! I mean . . . wow! Talk about vindictive. I wonder what the hell this Jay guy did to piss off his wife to the point she’d threaten to kill herself and then send him this note to rub it in that it was all his fault.” I leaned back against the sofa cushions and ran my fingers through my hair, feeling just that unsettled by the letter I’d just read. 

 

“‘The relentless ruination of your soul . . . Yours in Scorn and Betrayal’,” my Mystery Man read the last lines aloud, seeming to be just as bowled over by the letter as I was. “If you ask me, this Alma sounds like a bit of a bitch. Maybe Jay was glad to be rid of her? I know I would be after reading something like that.”

 

“But what if he deserved it? Maybe he was an abusive prick or something? And it does sound like he was sleeping around on her - ‘violated our marriage bed’ sounds pretty serious, doesn’t it? People took that kinda thing pretty seriously back then, right? I mean, far be it from me to judge and all, but . . .”

 

“No matter what led them to this extreme, it takes two to make an unhappy marriage, Brat,” my man concluded, rather sagely, in my honest opinion. 

********  
  
[A Woman Scorned by Lady Antebellum](https://youtu.be/tl74eBlXmKA). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/16/18 - How’s that for a cliffhanger, huh? We have so many delicious mysteries building up here. Just love how the story is coming together. Buckle up, readers, because this story is just getting good . . . Now, we’re off to plot and plan some more. Ciao! TAG & Sally.


	8. One Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys dive into their research and in the process learn more about each other. Enjoy! TAG & Sally

 

Chapter 8 - One Evening.

  
  


So, while I was still reeling from reading that apparent suicide note we’d found - which was, like, wow, that’s really intense, what do you say or do after that, huh? - I remembered that I’d seen the name ‘Jay’ somewhere before. I turned back to my piles of receipts and rifled through them till I got to the oldest levels. I almost gave up hope before I finally found the ones I had been looking for at the bottom of the pile of rental receipts. 

 

“Aha! That’s what I thought. Lookie here - I think we have our ‘J’!” I pulled a couple of the scraps of paper out so my own Mystery Man could see and hopefully help me solve this new mystery.

 

The document I’d located was pretty unremarkable on its face. It was just one of the many rent receipts that had been saved in that file. It showed that the firm of ‘James M’Millin & Sons’, a job and book printing business, had pre-paid their rent for the ground floor retail space for six months beginning in May of 1887. The cost of such extravagance was a whopping $75. And, while most of the other receipts that I had looked at covering that time period had been signed by ‘A. Peebles’, this one showed the name of ‘J.H. Frick’.

 

“I think we’ve got him!” I crowed happily. “So, it’s pretty clear, I think, that the J & A on the ring are ‘Jay’ and ‘Alma’ from the letter, right? And the fact that this letter was kept along with all these other records would indicate that our ‘Jay’ must have had some connection to the building, wouldn’t you say? So, can we reasonably conclude that Alma’s ‘Jay’ is the same as our ‘J.H. Frick’ here?”

 

“Jay Frick . . . that sounds familiar,” my man replied, apparently just as caught up in the mystery as I was by that point. 

 

Egbert got up from the sofa and wandered out of the room without saying anything more. I was fucking curious, so of course I followed him. We ended up down the hall in his grandfather’s beautiful old office, where Eggy went straight to one of the large floor-to-ceiling bookcases and pulled out a slightly tattered, leather bound book with the impressive title of ‘A Short History of Pittsburgh’ on it’s spine. 

  
  


“The Frick family was huge in Pittsburgh back in the day. Henry Clay Frick controlled the production of almost all the coke in the region and, since you couldn’t make steel without coke, he also played a major role in all the local steel production,” Eggy explained as he paged through the book. 

 

I was surprised by the fact that he didn’t seem at all reluctant to touch the book, whereas he’d been unable to touch any of the papers that I’d tried to hand him. I would have to ask Daphne about that later, because it seemed significant. Maybe, though, it was because he kept all the books in this office so clean and dust free that he knew he didn’t have to worry about them? Or maybe it was that he was just as caught up in the enigma of our ancient lovers’ identities as I was and he’d simply forgotten about the risk of any germs on the book? Who knew. But whatever the reason, he obviously knew what he was looking for so I just let him do it, only asking questions as they came to me but otherwise letting him take over the research efforts for the time being.

 

And the first question that came to my mind was, “why did you need Coke to make steel? Did the workers drink, like, gallons of it while they were making steel beams or something? I bet it WAS super hot in those old factories, so I guess it makes sense. But why didn’t they just switch to drinking water?”

 

My Egbert broke out laughing at my off the wall question, almost dropping his book, he apparently found me so hilarious. “You’re cute, but so misinformed,” he declared, confusing me for a minute because I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be offended at being called misinformed, or flattered that he thought I was cute, so I said nothing and just pouted. “I was referring to coke with a small ‘c’, not Coke with a big ‘C’ as in Coca-cola,” he explained further. “Coke was the fuel source they used to use to make steel. It’s made by baking regular coal in these huge closed ovens in order to get rid of all the impurities. Coke burns hotter and longer than coal, and was the primary fuel used in the blast furnaces they used to smelt the iron for steel back in the day. It’s nasty stuff though, with horrible environmental effects, and one of the primary reasons that Pittsburgh used to be such a hole. The fumes from the coke plants poisoned all the vegetation for miles around them and it’s what caused the air quality in the city to be so atrocious for most of the city’s history.”

 

He held out his book to me, opened to a picture of what looked like an old factory at night, as an example. “Is that an old coke factory? Did they run all night?” I asked.

  
  
  


Again he laughed at me. “That’s one of the main U.S. Steel factories in Pittsburgh back in the early 1900s. And the picture was taken in broad daylight, or at least what passed for daylight around here at the height of the steel industry. That’s how horrible and toxic the air quality was here in Pittsburgh. I can’t even begin to imagine how dirty it was.” 

 

I could see him shudder as he took the book back and continued to look through the pages.

 

“Okay. Here it is. I thought I remembered that name,” Egbert offered me the book, opened to the correct page when he’d finally located what he’d been looking for. “See. Jay Hubert Frick was the youngest brother of Henry Clay Frick.”

 

I looked at the book and saw that he was spot on. The pages he’d turned to gave a brief biography of the famous Mr. Frick, listing a bit of the man’s genealogy, including the names of his parents, spouse, cousins, children and siblings. And there on the page was our missing Jay H. Frick. Jay was one of three children born to John W. Frick and Elizabeth Overholt Frick, the other two being Henry, the oldest, and a daughter named, Chastity. The book even listed Jay’s wife, Alma, and the date of their marriage in December 1878. The rest of the passage went on to list some of the many illustrious accomplishments of Henry Clay Frick, and his cousins who had helped him get his start in the coke business, as well as the prominent careers of two of Henry’s children, one of whom, Childs Frick, became a famous paleontologist, and another, Helen Clay Frick, ended up a famous art collector and philanthropist. Oddly enough, there was nothing further listed for our man, Jay, other than his marriage to Alma. Apparently Jay hadn’t done anything worth writing about. But at least that answered the question about whether or not we had the correct J.H. Frick. 

 

“Sweet. So, this Jay Frick was famous or something and, based on the fact that he was signing rent receipts for our building, it seems he might have been a business partner of Peebles or something,” I summed up what we’d learned. 

 

“That makes sense,” Egbert agreed with me. “A large part of Henry Frick’s business empire in the 1800s came from him being one of the major landowners in the city. It wouldn’t be unusual for his brother to want to get in on the game too. Peebles was mostly just a lowly architect, so he probably wouldn’t have had the capital to build this place without getting an influx of cash from some other source - and a Frick would definitely have cash to burn around about the time this place was built.”

 

“So, we’ve found our ‘J’ and our ‘A’. Now we just need to figure out who the ‘B’ was that Peebles was writing to in that other letter,” I speculated aloud. “I wonder if they’re connected? Shit, I love a mystery like this.”

 

Egbert continued flicking through the book in his hands. “Well, I can assure you that the mystery ‘B’ they’re talking about isn’t me. I may look like I was born in the 1800s, but I promise you I wasn’t.” 

 

My head shot up. Was he giving me some sort of hint as to what his real name was? I looked over at him and I don’t think he’d noticed what he’d said. I studied his face as best I could with that bushy-ass beard covering most of it and tried to guess what his name could be. Benjamin? No, he didn’t seem like a Ben. Something elegant like Byron? Definitely not anything trendy like Braden or Blair or Brock, though. Hell, what else was there? Bob? No . . . well, maybe he could pass as a Bob. Hmm, how about Barry? Nah! I was going to go crazy thinking up all of these names, though. I think I’ll stick with Egbert until he’s ready to tell me more. 

 

Whoops, Eggy caught me staring at him. “What?” He asked nervously. “Do I have something on my face?”

 

I couldn’t help but smile, this guy was too stinking cute. “No, nothing like that. I was just trying to work out what your name is.”

 

“And you think you’ll figure it out just by staring at me?” He smirked. 

 

“So, is this going to end up being like that fairy tale? I have to guess your name or you take my first born child or something? Can I jump straight to ‘Rumplestiltskin’ and just skip all the suspense?” I teased him, enjoying the shy smile I got in return.

 

“Sorry, Brat, but you’re not even close. Keep guessing.”

 

“You’re just a big tease, aren’t you?” I accused him. “No matter. I’ll just keep calling you Egbert till you get so annoyed that you can’t take it anymore and you have to tell me your real name or go crazy.”

 

“Already been there and done that, so your threat to drive me crazy isn’t going to work, little boy,” he replied with an even flirtier grin than before - and can I just say that I really like this flirty version of my Mystery Man? 

 

“Well, maybe your name is in here along with the other ‘B’?” I suggested as I went back to scanning through the history book listing the names of all the prominent founding families of Pittsburgh. 

 

“I seriously doubt that. Not unless the book includes a list of the relatives of poor Micks who barely had a nickel to their names when they arrived in town. My grandfather, Donal, wasn’t just dirt poor when he got to Pittsburgh, he actually owed the dirt money, I think. When he was a kid, he used to walk alongside the railroad tracks with a bucket, picking up the lumps of coal that dropped off the trains going to the coke plants and then sold what he found back to the plant owners for a few pennies a bucket. That’s how he fed himself. If he hadn’t knocked up my grandmother and then forced her parents to let him marry her, he would have probably died penniless.”

 

“This is the grandfather that used to own this building?” I asked, just to clarify. 

 

“Yep. Good old Donny boy. Friend to every bar keep in Pittsburgh back in the day,” Eggy answered, sounding bitter even as he praised his grandfather. “Little did they know that the Don everybody claimed to love in public was a nasty mean drunk to his family behind closed doors, huh? Or maybe they did know and just didn’t care? Either way, I doubt the bastard would have ended up in this list of powerful, upstanding people. And, just in case you’re wondering, I’m not in there either.” My man reached over and, with the tip of one finger, flipped the cover of the book closed. 

 

I obstinately opened the book back up again. “Yeah, well, I’m not giving up. You might not be in here, but maybe Peebles’ ‘B’ is. And maybe there’s some relationship to the unhappy Jay and Alma. You never know. B might be the other woman that Jay shared his bed with.”

 

“Maybe. But I’d think you’d have better luck identifying her by going through that binder full of documents than in here,” my man wisely suggested.

 

“Good point, Eggy!” I declared, getting back to my feet and heading for the door of the office. “So, you going to help me go through all those damn rent receipts or what?”

 

“You’re on your own there, Brat,” he warned, although I noticed that he seemed happy to follow me back to his rooms at the other end of the hallway. 

 

“Fine. You can just supervise. But I’m GOING to find our lost ‘B’. Somehow. Just watch.”

 

“Knock yourself out,” my man chuckled at me as I sank down onto the sofa once more and started examining the pile of documents more closely, looking for any ‘B’ names that might arise.

  
  


“Morning, Sir. I’ve got your delivery here. Shall I put it on the counter as usual?” 

 

The booming words startled me out of the lovely dream I was having of me and Eggy dancing in the courtyard of the old Phipps Conservatory. We were wearing old fashioned suits and I was carrying a wedding bouquet. He was sporting Alma’s wedding band. And, for some unknown reason, the band was all dressed in Lederhosen but the music they were playing sounded a lot like Cardi B’s ‘Best Life’. Okay, I admit that my dreams have never made much sense, so sue me. I can’t help where my crazy subconscious goes. And I may be the only gay white boy who likes Cardi B, but to each his own, right?

  
  


Anyway, that’s probably why the transition from my fantasy dreamscape to the present reality seemed so harsh. Because when I woke up I wasn’t in a beautifully manicured arboretum; I was lying on a lumpy old sofa with a sore back and drool drying on my cheek and the pillow under my head. I blinked up at the light fixture over my head as I tried to remember where I was. This was definitely NOT my comfortable queen-sized bed in my own messy but familiar apartment. So where the fuck was I? Did I get wasted drunk and have sex with some rando again? I hate when that happens. It’s always so embarrassing when you wake up and can’t remember the guy’s name, let alone the lukewarm sex you’d had the night before. And then you have to try to remember where you left your car or, if you didn’t drive, figure out how the fuck you’re gonna get home when you don’t even know where you are to start with. I can personally confirm that public transportation on a hangover is less than fun, and if you vomit on the bus, the driver will get really pissed off at you. Plus, even if you’re not hungover, the walk of shame - shuffling down the street in the morning when you’re still wearing the assless chaps and see-through shirt you thought were SUCH a good idea the night before - is never fun. Trust me on that. NEVER a good idea!

 

“Thanks, Chad. Yeah, just put it all over there and I’ll take care of it later,” replied a smooth baritone voice that made ripples of yum vibrate through my midsection.

 

THAT voice I at least recognized. It was my Eggy. And once I’d heard his voice, it all started to come back to me. I recalled where I was - on the sofa in the Mystery Man’s rooms on the top floor of the Triangle Building - and that, unfortunately, this time I wasn’t waking up after a night of crazy, wild, unbridled monkey sex. I was waking up after a night of research and poring through page after page of dusty old building receipts. Apparently the research had been so thrilling that I’d fallen asleep in the middle of it all and Egbert had let me stay over. Hmmm. Not sure what that meant, but I’d think on it later. For the moment, the first order of business was finding a toilet so I could take a piss; all that tea Egbert had made for us while I was going through the building records the night before was turning out to be a little much for my bladder.

 

I got up off the sofa and hobbled over as gracefully as I could to where my Mystery Man was standing, despite feeling as though I was mere seconds from pissing my pants. I could feel my bladder pressing painfully against my abdomen and I knew if I didn’t get to a bathroom soon I was going to embarrass myself. By the time I’d reached the other side of the room, the guy bringing up what I could now see were Egbert’s groceries, had gone. I wanted to stand there and watch as he wiped down and organized his groceries into categories - a fascinating and elaborate endeavor - but I currently had more pressing matters to attend to. 

 

“Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” I asked, bouncing from one foot to the other as a way to distract myself from the water Eggy had started to pour into the coffee machine. 

 

He jumped at the sound of my voice and quickly turned around to face me. The asshole made no effort to hide the smirk on his face as he watched me squirm. 

 

“Please?” I heard myself ask. 

 

I watched as he chewed his lip anxiously, clearly having some sort of intense internal argument with himself. He couldn’t say no, he knew that - it was obvious how desperate I was - but he still hesitated. What the hell? How was my asking to use the toilet a problem here?

 

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he finally conceded to my request. “It’s over there.” He pointed to a door in the far corner of the room. “Just . . .”

 

“What?” 

 

He shrugged and shook his head. “Never mind.”

 

I wanted to wait around and see what it was he was trying to say, but I couldn’t risk it. I legged it into the bathroom and could hear him laughing at me as the door slammed behind my ass. Then I was finally standing above the toilet bowl as my morning stream arched downward, sighing happily as I felt the pressure easing. That morning piss was always the best, wasn’t it? I mean, there’s just nothing else to compare it to. Okay, so maybe I was getting a little overly sentimental about a bodily function, but I really did have to go pretty fucking badly and I am allowed to enjoy the fact that I didn’t piss myself in front of my Eggy, right? There’s a reason it’s called, ‘relieving yourself’.

 

As I exited the bathroom I could see my man pacing the length of the living area, he was practically wearing out the wooden floors with the way he was going at it. It was only then that I thought about what I’d just done and how that was probably fucking with his mental state. 

 

“I’m sorry . . .” I apologized. “I really needed to . . . you know.” I wasn’t sure if I could even say the word ‘piss’ without setting him off; I wasn’t quite accustomed to what sorts of things were triggers for him yet, but I had a feeling letting some stranger piss in your toilet was probably one of them. “Don’t worry, my mother was a fanatic about always reminding me not to splash - hell, one time she got so mad at me and my dad for making a mess that she threatened to institute a rule that everyone in the house had to sit down to piss at all times - so I’m always careful . . . and I washed my hands.”

 

The audible sigh of relief broke my heart a little. I couldn’t imagine living in that sort of fear over something, that to me, was so inconsequential, but to him was clearly a huge deal. It must be a bitch trying to get through even a normal day with all that fear hanging over your every move. All in all, though, I thought my man was handling his unexpected overnight guest pretty well, considering.

 

But, now that the issue of my personal hygiene was resolved, Mystery Man went back to putting away his grocery delivery.

 

“So this explains one mystery,” I declared, leaning back against the counter so I could have a good view of the proceedings. “I’d wondered how you were getting your supplies, since I’d never seen you go out. I’d never seen any deliveries either, but that must be because they all came at ass o’clock.”

 

“Not all of us are lazy-assed art students, who never get up till lunchtime, Sunshine,” he commented, as he took out one wet wipe after another, applying each to a different grocery item, and then setting all the cleaned products to one side. 

 

“Sunshine?” I asked curiously. 

 

“I was just teasing. You don’t seem like much of a morning person.” He commented. 

 

“I’m not . . . but I don’t sleep till lunch,” I insisted, slightly defensive, but then reassessed and had to qualify my statement. “Well, at least not all the time. I mean, I DO have ten o’clock classes twice a week, so I’m up by at least nine on those days. And next semester, I think I have one class that meets at nine even, so I’ll be up at, like, dawn those days.”

 

It was good to know that I was a source of endless amusement to my host, who was still chuckling as he took up a stack of boxes of latex gloves - you know, like the kind doctors use - and wiped them down before storing them in a lower cupboard. 

 

“I stand corrected. You’re not lazy. You’re just ‘morning-challenged’,” he maintained. “I, on the other hand, like to get most of the more mundane parts of my day over with early so I don’t have to interrupt my work later in the day.”

 

While he was speaking he had made his way through the preliminary sanitization of a case - seriously, he got an entire fucking CASE - of wet wipes, as well as about ten other types of cleaning solutions, sprays, soaps, and other sanitary supplies. The amount of actual food in his grocery delivery was relatively meager compared to the huge haul of all his cleaning paraphernalia. Again, I couldn’t imagine a life that would require that much cleaning shit. Of course, I was lucky if I remembered to scrub out the toilet once a month and I only cleaned the shower when it was so gritty that it grossed me out when I felt the grime on my toes, so I wasn’t one to talk. Daphne wasn’t much better, although she was a stickler for a clean kitchen, going on and on about bacteria if I left food out or shit like that. But for the rest of the apartment, she was mostly just as lax as I was. We didn’t even own a vacuum - we just borrowed the neighbor’s when it got too disgusting for either of us to ignore any more. My poor hermit probably wouldn’t be able to set foot in our apartment without a biohazard suit. Yeah, we wouldn’t tell him about that, though, because he was stressed out enough without knowing his guest was the foulest of foul fucking slobs. At least I was on top of my personal hygiene. 

 

“So, I get the wet wipes and the cleaning stuff,” I commented as he moved on to the smaller pile of toiletries, “but why the carton of condoms, Eggy? Are you secretly sneaking out after dark and plowing your way through the city’s gay bars?”

 

“Yeah, right . . .” Egbert scoffed as he quickly removed the box of Trojans from my view, wiped the box down and then carried them into the bathroom so as to remove them from sight altogether. 

 

Apparently he wasn’t going to answer my question about what he did with his supply of rubbers, though. Oh well, it really was a little intrusive of me to ask, but then again nobody ever accused me of being overly concerned with propriety . . . to my mother’s everlasting shame. By the time he came back I’d mentally chastised myself into a less nosy frame of mind and vowed not to embarrass him with more annoying questions.

 

Unfortunately my resolve not to be nosy lasted only about thirty seconds before I gave up on that impossible vow. “You don’t eat much, it seems. No wonder you’re so skinny. Bagels, bread, cold cuts, salad fixings . . . Where’s the real food?”

 

“That is real food,” he argued as he quickly retrieved the items I’d commented on and began putting them away in the various containers he had ready before depositing it all in the refrigerator. 

 

“You can’t seriously live on bagels and sandwiches, can you?”

 

“You can if you don’t like to cook.”

 

I stopped myself only seconds before I made a total ass of myself by arguing with him. Personally, I’d die on a diet of only sandwiches and salads. I lived on pasta and pizza and take out Thai and . . . Well, I hadn’t actually met any kind of food that I didn’t like, except maybe the crap that passed for food with the Vegan crowd. And I loved to cook, when I wasn’t being too distracted by school or my art. I felt worse for my Eggy about the food thing than I did about the weird germ thing. You were really missing out on a huge slice of life if you limited yourself to this pitiful array of cold foods. Poor Egbert. I would definitely have to work on him and his eating issues.

 

But, to distract myself from making any more negative comments and totally putting my foot in my mouth, I decided to change the subject. “So, you mentioned that you do all this in the morning so it won’t interrupt your work? What do you do? I’m assuming you work from home since I never see you leave, so I’m guessing . . . Maybe one of those horribly rude customer service reps that never say anything useful when you call to complain about your cable going out? Or you could be the annoying guy doing cold calls to try and sell people new phone plans they don’t want. Or . . . Oh, I’ve got it! You’re the guy people call for phone sex - the one who always has that amazing, sultry, sexy voice and says the hottest things, but who you secretly suspect is clipping his toenails while he’s talking to you. You’re THAT guy, right?”

 

I loved that I could make my man outright giggle the way I had just then. I really don’t think my hermit laughs nearly enough. You can tell because all the crinkles around his mouth and eyes are sad crinkles, not happy laugh lines. And I KNOW I just met him a few days before, but for some reason I feel like I NEED to be the guy that makes him laugh. Weird, huh? Whatever.

 

“You’re giving me way too much credit, Brat,” he admitted as he stowed the last of the delivery and then wiped down the counters to ensure there were no errant germs left behind. “I’m only a mere technical writer.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“I write all the boring user manuals for all the gadgets people buy. Like computers, phones, cameras, even cars. You know, like, how to insert the metal tang of the seat belt into the slot of the seat belt harness . . . shit that should be common sense to most people but that, for some reason, most of the morons in the world can’t figure out without detailed, step-by-step directions, complete with pictures. It’s boring as hell, I’m afraid, but I’m good at it and I make decent money. Plus, I get to work from home and all my assignments come by computer so I don’t have to deal with anyone in person,” he explained. “Mostly I just do it to stay busy. I inherited this building from my grandfather, along with a bit of money - enough to keep me going as long as I don’t live too extravagantly - so I’m not hurting or anything. But, since I don’t really have anything better to do with my time, I might as well earn a paycheck, don’t you think?”

 

“Must be nice,” I answered with a tinge of jealousy. “Starving art student here. I can barely make ends meet on what my father allows me for my living expenses. But with school and my artwork, I don’t have a lot of time for a real job. Although I do sometimes pick up a shift or two waiting tables at this kitschy little gay diner a few blocks over in the Strip District - mostly just to pick up tips, because the pay sucks, but the clientele there love me - and the manager is pretty understanding about working around my wonky schedule. Other than that, though, I’m kind of a pauper.”

 

“Not for long, I’m sure. I’ve seen your work - it wasn’t half bad. I expect you’ll be making plenty of money before long.”

 

“If you say so,” I smiled at him and stretched to loosen my back after the night on his lumpy sofa. “But I’m certainly not going to be getting rich any time soon. Especially if I miss class and don’t graduate with that art degree that’s supposedly going to open up all kinds of doors for my budding career. So, not to drool on your sofa and then just run, and all, but I think I better get going,” I pushed away from the counter where I’d been leaning and started to head for the door, looking back over my shoulder to say my goodbyes. “Thanks for letting me crash here last night and all.”

 

“No problem. It was . . . nice to have the company,” my man admitted, hesitantly, as he followed me.

 

“Awww, Egbert, don’t go getting all soft on me or anything. You’ll get kicked out of the Hermit Club if you start letting crazy art students invade your sacred precincts all the time like this,” I teased, because for some reason I just couldn’t stop teasing and flirting with this man.

 

“I’m not a fucking hermit.”

 

“No? Well, maybe not. I always thought of hermits as dirty, half-naked, mostly crazy sorts, so that definitely doesn’t fit YOU. No, you’re more of the Ascetic Stylite type,” I declared. “Yeah. That’s more you. A principled person, of excellent taste, who chooses to live a purer life than the rest of us peons, and therefore maintains himself in the seclusion of his tower, where he can contemplate life on a higher plane, away from the rest of humanity.”

 

“You’re something else, you know. I don’t even know what to call you. You’re . . .”

 

“I think the words you were looking for are ‘annoying brat’. Right?”

 

“Precisely.”

 

“Later, my Stylin’ Stylite.”

 

“Later, Brat.”

**********

[ One Evening by Feist ](https://youtu.be/wBavrE3as4M) .   [ Henry Clay Frick ](https://www.britannica.com/biography/Henry-Clay-Frick) . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/19/18 - Disclaimer Time: Henry Clay Frick is a well known historical figure and one of the pre-eminent tycoons of early Pittsburgh. You can research more about this sometimes ruthless but admittedly brilliant businessman by clicking the link at the end of the doc. Our ‘Jay Frick’, however, is just another of your authors’ private creations that we have made up out of the ether of our imaginations. So please don’t tell any of the Frick descendents on us - we are not trying to imply any real relationship between our fictional characters and the real H.C. Frick, other than what we needed to make our story work. Apologies to any historians out there who were confused by this. And, FYI: Stylite - an ascetic living on top of a pillar, especially in ancient or medieval Syria, Turkey, and Greece in the 5th century AD (or, in other words, a hermit with style? lol). So much info in this chapter, huh? But when will get the boys to some more intimate dealings? Soon, we hope. TAG & Sally.


	9. Green Eyes

 

Chapter 9 - Green Eyes.

  
I staggered through the door of my own apartment about forty-five minutes later, desperate for a shower and some breakfast. The only good thing about the morning was that it was still so early that I had plenty of time to get both before I’d have to head back downtown for my first class of the day. I seriously did not know how Eggy dealt with these early morning starts to his days. If I had to be up and functional at dawn every day, I would end up crashing by ten each night - definitely not the preferred schedule for a night owl like myself.

Even Daphne, that paragon of productivity, was only just beginning to pad around in her pj’s while gurgling down her morning infusion of caffeine like it was her life’s blood - which it was. She gave me a big old knowing grin as I came through the door. Talk about a Cheshire grin, she practically lit up the whole kitchen with that smirk.

“Welcome back, Stud. Have a seat. I’ll get you some coffee while you start spilling. And I want ALL the details this time. No skipping over the good parts,” she ordered as she waved the carafe from the coffee maker at me. “Well, go on.”

Sheesh, when did Daph become such a slut for MY sex life? That girl really needed a hobby, you know? Or maybe she needs to take some time off school and get herself laid or something. She can’t live vicariously through me forever. Especially when, at the moment, even my sex life isn’t much to crow over.

“Afraid you’re going to be disappointed this time, Daph. There are no details to give. Unless you want to know about the lumpy sofa I spent the night drooling on,” I replied, almost laughing at the way her face fell when she realized she wasn’t going to get to hear any stories about my dick this time.

“Damn!” she complained as she poured me a cup of coffee nevertheless. “So where did you spend the night then, if you weren’t getting lucky?”

“At the Triangle Building with my hairy mystery man,” I informed her, sparking a new light of interest in her eyes.

“You stayed over with the hermit guy? That’s surprising. Considering his level of OCD, I wouldn’t think he’d be able to tolerate that. He must have it bad for you.”

“Eggy did pretty well with the whole overnight guest thing, actually,” I assured her as I took my first sip of that nectar of the gods known as coffee.

“Eggy?”

“Yeah,” I chuckled along with my friend at the unconventional nickname. “I still don’t know his real name and he’s being all coy about telling me so I said I was going to just call him ‘Egbert’ until he fessed up and told me his real name. I think the name’s starting to grow on me actually.”

“You’re weird, you know that?”

“Well, duh? You’re just now discovering that?”

“But how was your ‘Eggy’ about you staying over and all? Was he super freaked out this morning? That had to be a big deal for him, I would think.”

“He was pretty okay with it, I guess,” I reassured her as I dug through the fridge to retrieve some eggs and a lump of not too-moldy cheese which would suffice for an omelet. “It’s not like we planned for me to stay or anything, though. We came across some really interesting stuff in the file of old documents he gave me and we were doing some more research trying to identify the rest of the people involved. I think we’re on to some kind of juicy scandal or something - well, as juicy as you can get when all the people involved are already dead. But, anyway, I sorta just fell asleep on his couch while I was reading, so it’s not like he had a choice or anything. He either had to let me stay or else he’d have had to poke me awake to get me to leave, and that would have involved actually touching me so . . . I think letting me sleep there was the easier of the two choices actually. The only hard part for him was when I asked to use the john this morning after I woke up. That almost threw him for a loop, poor guy.”

“You know, you staying over and all is probably the best thing for him,” Daphne opined, stealing a slice of the cheese I’d just cut for myself. “He’ll never get over his OCD if he stays holed up in there all by himself forever. He’ll fucking die in there all alone. Just having you visit him all the time is likely causing him to stretch all his boundaries - in a good way.”

“That’s how I see it too. Not that it seems like it’s doing much good. He won’t even touch the coffees I’ve been bringing him without first wiping them down with these wet wipe things. And you should see the cleaning shit he has stockpiled away in there. It must cost a fortune to be that germaphobic. Cleaning stuff isn’t cheap, you know?”

“Just keep it up. What you’re doing is basically the same thing a professional would do. They call it ERP - Exposure and Response Prevention Therapy. It’s the best treatment for OCD out there.”

I dished out the omelet I’d cooked up, sliding it onto a large plate and then taking that along with two forks over to the table where Daphne was waiting for me. She’d poured out two glasses of cranberry juice for us besides the coffee we were both already halfway through. This was sort of our routine, you know? We’d sit, share our food and talk. It was a thing.

“Exposure, huh? So, how’s that work?” I asked, wanting to know more.

“It’s simple, really. It’s just a form of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy that’s specific for OCD.”

“In English, please, Daph.”

She laughed at my ignorance but carried on with her explanation. “So, OCD and related behavioral problems aren’t like other mental health conditions. OCD doesn’t respond well to your normal therapy approaches. You can’t just talk someone with OCD through it, so regular, Freud-ish, lay-on-the-couch-and-tell-me-all-your-secret-thoughts-about-your-mother, therapy doesn’t work.” Seeing my obvious confusion, my doctor-to-be doubled down on the science speak for me - gotta love her. “See, OCD is not something rational that can be discussed. It’s a neurologically based anxiety disorder. Telling someone with OCD not to worry is like telling someone with asthma to stop having trouble breathing. It isn’t possible.” She paused while she slurped up the rest of her coffee and then got up to get us both refills. “In a nutshell, ERP Therapy involves the person with OCD facing his or her fears and then refraining from ritualizing. Even though it can initially be extremely anxiety provoking, eventually the anxiety starts to wane, and can sometimes even disappear. The more a patient is exposed to the cause of his anxiety, and finds he’s still okay after exposure, the less anxious he’ll be.” She sat back down next to me and stole the last bite of my omelet. “So, for example, with your OCD guy who has issues with germs - he might be asked to touch a toilet seat and then refrain from washing his hands. It would totally feel horrible to him at first, but once he saw that it wasn’t going to kill him, he’d learn to internalize the fact that his anxieties were all overkill.”

“I get it. Makes sense,” I replied, trying to work though the concept in my head. “Same thing with my coffees, right? The more I can get him to deal with his fears about the germs in them, the easier it will get?”

“Exactly. So, your next step would be to get him to stop wiping down the cups. If he can just hold the cup in his hands without freaking over the germs on the cup, he’ll see that it wasn’t as scary as he thought. And then, you could, maybe, get him to even take a sip. Hell, before you know it, you’ll have him actually holding hands and then we can start planning the wedding.”

That had me sputtering in my cranberry juice. “Whoa there, Nelly. Don’t you think you’re jumping ahead a little? I only met the guy and I don’t even know his real name. Wedding plans are a bit premature here, Daph.”

“Pffft. You can deny it all you want, Jus, but I’ve never seen you have it so bad for anyone before. You’re totally obsessed with this guy. Trust me, there WILL be a wedding. It’s just a matter of time,” she teased me, only giggling when I wadded up my napkin and threw it in her face.

“Maybe we should work our way up to actually touching first, before you start picking out the names of our children for us, huh?” I got up to put my plate in the dishwasher and do a quick clean up of my kitchen mess. “Although, I do kinda feel bad for Eggy, you know? I just . . . I don’t know . . . He’s just different from anyone else I’ve ever met. I feel like there’s this whole other person in there. Maybe it’s his eyes - there’s this impish green sparkle in them sometimes that makes me think there’s another man inside somewhere. Like, underneath that hermit appearance, is this amazing guy, and I want to help him, you know? I want to find out who he really is. Who he could be if he wasn’t hiding his true self. It’s like, I get these little glimpses of the funny, witty, totally amazing guy he could be if he just had a little more self-confidence. It’s a challenge, you know?”

“And you’ve always been a sucker for a challenge, haven’t you?” Daphne finished my thought for me. “Like I said, you’re obsessed.” And she scarpered off, humming the wedding march under her breath in the most sarcastic possible way.

“Freak!” I yelled after her, following down the hall towards my own room with the intent of showering and getting ready for school, and muttering to myself as the threads of our conversation wound themselves through my brain. “Fucking wedding . . . I haven’t even kissed him yet . . . not that I could with that beard . . . couldn’t find his lips if I wanted to . . . wouldn’t mind looking for them though . . . maybe, after I get him to drink the coffee, I could talk him into letting me cut his hair and giving him a shave . . .”

 

“Shouldn’t you be studying something like Art History, not Pittsburgh History?” an annoying voice whispered into my ear as I was startled out of my intense concentration on the computer screen I had been reading back to the reality of the school library.

“What are you doing in here, Ethan?” I angry whispered back at him. “This library is for AIOP students, I thought, which doesn’t include you. Or did you give up on the violin and decide to try your hand at art after all?”

“And deprive the world of my prodigious musical talent? Never,” he whispered back, then pulled up a chair and sat down so close to me our knees were touching. “I just met Keith down in the cafeteria and he mentioned he’d seen you up here. He says you’ve been here pretty much all day. But you’re obviously not boning up on your school work, so why not take a break and come get a coffee with me instead,” he gave me a little wink as he asked and it made me want to punch him in the face, but the thought of injuring my sketching hand was enough to stop me.

I thought about just saying no and asking him to leave me alone, but I didn’t think Ethan would listen. And the library was not the place to have the conversation that I now realized had to happen. This guy just didn’t get it. I was going to have to come right out and tell him to his face; I wasn’t interested and he needed to back the fuck off. Now. So, with a sigh, I reluctantly logged off the computer, stowed my books and the printouts I’d made in my bag, and led the way out of the library and down the hallway to the first empty classroom I could find.

I held the door open for Ethan, who was grinning at me like a fucking loon as he strutted past me. I don’t know what the asshole was thinking - in what alternate reality would I be taking him into a classroom in my school, alone, to do anything other than give him a rude tongue lashing. He was dreaming if he thought I’d ever do anything else to him with my tongue, cuz then I’d be forced to cut it off and burn it and go mute for the rest of my life, but I’d rather do that than whatever it was he was thinking about right then. As soon as he was inside the room, though, I roughly shoved the door closed behind me, and leaned against it to prevent any interruptions.

“Okay, this is the deal, Ethan - and I’m just going to be blunt here, because I’m totally fucking fed up with this bullshit - stop following me around. I’m NOT FUCKING INTERESTED in you! Get it? I do not want to go out with you. I don’t even want to talk to you. I’m not at all attracted to you and that one night I did go home with you was a total fucking mistake. If I hadn’t been so drunk I couldn’t see straight, I would never have slept with you. You are not my type. You will never BE my type. Get it through your tiny little curly-haired skull, okay? Now, stop stalking me or I’ll be forced to tell everyone in Pittsburgh about just how small and useless that piece of fluff between your legs - the one you think qualifies as a penis - really is. Got it?”

“What the hell? Fuck you!”

Ethan seemed on the verge of arguing with me and I was just not having it. “No. That’s what I’m trying to tell you here, there will be NO fucking. None at all. Seriously. Get over yourself and LEAVE ME ALONE!” I ordered, almost screaming out the last few words.

“You realize you’re totally fucking insane, right?” he snarled at me and I remembered that old saw my mother used a lot about how, ‘if looks could kill’.

“Insanely tired of you AND this conversation, yeah. Now, I’ve got places to go and things to do with people I want to be with, so it’s time for you to go, Ethan.” I moved away from the door far enough that it would open and I pointed him through it. “I think you can find your own way out. And, if I see you continuing to hang out around here after this, I’ll be making a complaint to campus security, so I’d recommend that you stick to haunting your own school from now on. Kay?”

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself. I was only trying to be friendly. It’s not like your fat ass is anything special. You don’t deserve me anyway,” Ethan said, trying to turn things around because of course he only saw the world through Ethan-colored glasses. “When you finally realize that, and come running after ME, we’ll see who’s begging whom.”

If my eyes had rolled any further back into my skull, I could have probably seen my own brain stem. But at least he finally left. I waited until I saw his scrawny ass turn around the far corner of the building before I finally took a deep breath in relief. Hopefully that would be the last I had to deal with Ethan Gold’s skanky ass.

Now I was free to go deal with some much more amusing business. I made my way out of the building and practically sprinted down the street, heading westward, cutting through alleys and skirting the buildings that made up the Cultural District, as I pelted towards downtown proper. I barely stopped long enough at the lobby door of the Triangle Building to let myself in via my usual burglary skills. And then I was galloping up the stairs two steps at a time. I knocked on the door to my Eggy’s rooms, but there was no answer there, so I trotted on down the hallway to the office and knocked there.

Upon hearing a muffled ‘Harumph’ noise - sort of a combination exasperated sigh and growl all put together with a cute little Eggy moan added in for good measure - there was a semi-polite, “You’re coming in whether or not I invite you, right? So why do you even knock?”

I twisted the doorknob and let myself in with a grin, answering, “because it wouldn’t be polite not to knock, and if my mother ever found out about me being rude, she’d give me one of her endless lectures which, I can assure you, are not pleasant to sit through, so it’s just easier to be polite and knock.” I found him sitting at the little secretary desk against the far wall, where the modern day laptop sitting on the opened lid of the antique desk made for a strange contrast. “Afternoon, Eggy. Did you miss me?”

“How can I miss you when you’re always here?” Egbert answered, trying to sound annoyed, but he was betrayed by the smile that escaped from underneath his beard.

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to be lonely now, would I?” I replied and helped myself to a seat in one of the big overstuffed armchairs and beamed my brattiest smile at him. “So, whatcha doing?”

“I’m working.”

“I can see that. What are you working on”

He sighed and spun around in his desk chair so he could face me directly. “I’m writing a manual for a fucking electric teapot. It’s thrilling work. I mean, who can’t figure out a one-button electric teapot? But that’s my life, so . . .”

“Good thing I’m here to distract you, then, isn’t it?” I pulled out one of my signature moves that had never yet failed to get me whatever I’d wanted from the first time I’d discovered it back when I was about five - I smiled at him and scrunched up my nose as if to say, ‘you know you want to agree with me and I’m too adorable to argue with, right?’ I realize it’s a little unfair of me to use that move on a neophyte like Eggy, but all’s fair in love and such. Plus, I’m careful to only use my power for good, and teasing my man was a great cause, wasn’t it? Whatever. Of course he fell for it though and in only seconds after I hit him with the scrunched up nose thing I could tell he’d totally forgotten his work. It’s a burden being this powerful sometimes, but it works for me. Once I had him thoroughly distracted, I dove into the topic I really wanted to discuss. “So, did you find out any more about our long lost lovers or the mysterious ‘B’ after I left this morning?”

“When would I have done that? You’ve only been gone a couple hours.”

“Well, how long can writing about a teapot take?”

“To do it right? It takes longer than you’d think. Plus, I’ve already written one on a waffle maker this morning.”

“Then you obviously deserve a break, right?” I suggested,

“I guess I could use a drink,” Eggy sighed as he closed the lid of his laptop. “All this talk about teapots is making me thirsty. How about a cup of tea? I see you didn’t bring your trusty mocha with you this time.”

“I was too excited to get here to take the time to stop for coffee today. Sorry. I’ll make sure to bring you something special next time though. Any requests?”

“I’m sure you’ll surprise me,” he capitulated, and I knew in that moment that I’d already won him over, hook, line and sinker.

I followed him back to his rooms and took up my usual spot on the sofa as he puttered around making a pot of tea. I was amazed at the amount of work it took for him to just get that one small task completed, but considering all the little rituals he had to incorporate I suppose it shouldn’t have surprised me. First he had to rewash the kettle before filling it with water and starting it heating. While that was doing it’s thing, he hand washed two mugs, drying them before lining them up on the countertop, making sure they were perfectly even. Next he preheated the teapot with warm water from the kettle and added two teabags before filling it with the now boiling water from the kettle.

While the tea was steeping, my man set two coasters on the table in front of the sofa, taking extra effort to make sure each was centered precisely at opposite ends. He put out a sugar bowl, creamer and a trivet for when the pot was ready, and aligned them with the coasters. Two spoons were added, each squarely aligned next to its respective coaster. Finally, when the tea had brewed long enough, he brought the pot over, poured out a portion of the final aromatic liquid into each cup, making sure that the water level in each was equal, and then placed the pot on the trivet in the middle of the table. It was all done very deliberately and with absolutely accuracy.

Which, of course, I immediately ruined as soon as I grabbed my cup and in the process moved it out of alignment with the rest of the set up. I saw Egbert briefly flutter his eyes closed and sigh as he dealt with my disruption of his perfect tableau. Thinking back to Daphne’s advice about Exposure Therapy, though, I figured it was good for Eggy to have to deal with me messing with his ritual a tiny bit. But, to distract him from his moment of distress, I decided to change the subject.

“So I did some work of my own this afternoon,” I offered over the rim of my tea cup as I inhaled the aromatic steam. I wasn’t usually much of a tea drinker - not because I didn’t like it, but I tended to need the extra caffeine hit from a coffee more - but after drinking this, I may have been converted. “I was busy trying to solve the mystery of your missing name.”

That seemed to surprise my Egbert, who tilted his head at me over his own cup as if to grant me leave to try and figure him out while remaining skeptical that I’d succeed. Little did he know that I wasn’t one to give up easily. Not when I had a mystery almost as delicious as the tea I was drinking waiting for me.

“It took me a while to come up with a way to find what I needed,” I explained. “I didn’t have much to go on other than the fact that Rumpelstiltskin was wrong.” We both chuckled at that. “But, since you hinted that it starts with a ‘B’, I started off by looking up ‘B’ names.

He chuckled again at that, probably thinking that I was going to play his game and that he could continue to draw this out, but he didn’t know about MY secret. I could play a little, though. I liked to play. Not that word games were my preferred type of game. But I didn’t think my man was ready for the games I did want to play with him. Who knew, though, I might get there someday, right, and boy had I been dreaming about it . . .

“You’re definitely a Barnaby,” I guessed.

“Definitely NOT!”

“Okay, how about Bartholomew?” He shook his head, ‘no’, and I laughed. “Barnard? Benedict? Beauregard? Bonaventure?” He just kept shaking his head amusedly. “Betelgeuse?”

“Hell no! I think I prefer Egbert.”

“Fine, well then . . . How about . . . Brian? Brian Kinney?” I ventured, causing him to gasp in surprise that I’d seemingly pulled the correct name right out of the blue.

“How did you do that?” he asked suspiciously, his hand busy twirling the hair from his beard as he continued to stare at me.

“You thought you were being super sneaky by putting the building in the name of an anonymous LLC, but that didn’t confuse me for long,” I grinned cockily at him, enjoying my moment of triumph, knowing that I’d solved at least one of the mysteries about this building. “But did you know that the Secretary of State’s records are online and anyone can find the name of any business’ Registered Agent. So, when I saw that The Flatiron Consortium, LLC listed its Registered Agent to be ‘Brian Kinney’ - a ‘B’ name, by the way - and that the Agent’s address was the building’s street address, I figured I’d gotcha.”

Eggy . . . I mean, Brian . . . cleared his throat - a sure sign that he was uncomfortable with the situation. What? Did he really expect me to never find out his name? “I hope . . . you don’t mind that I know your real name now, do you?” I suddenly felt like an asshole for going behind his back like that. “If you want, I can still call you Egbert?” I suggested lamely.

Brian shrugged his shoulders, obviously thinking over what I’d offered. “I guess it’s okay. I mean, I know your name after all. I suppose it was kind of unfair for me to not have offered mine to you at the beginning. You know, when you first broke in,” he grinned and his eyes did that bright green sparkling thing that I’d become a hopeless pushover for, and I relaxed, knowing that he was going to be okay with this. “You think you’re a real genius now, don’t you? I can already tell you’re going to be insufferable after this. And here I was thinking that most criminals were inherently stupid. Why did I have to be haunted by the world’s only smarty pants burglar? Although it's probably for the best; I was getting tired of ‘Eggy’.”

“Nah. I think you secretly loved being ‘Eggy’. But we’ll have to keep that private - just between you and me - because we wouldn't want the entire world to know my private pet name for you, now would we?” I teased him right back, thrilled to see him being so bold and even a tad flirty. Of course, then I just had to go and ruin it all by pushing too far, but then again, that’s sort of a thing for me. I’m well known in certain circles for going too far. I just can’t help myself sometimes, you know. “I mean, I can’t be introducing you to people as ‘My New Boyfriend, Eggy’. No. We’ll save that for pillow talk, I think.”

The second the words were out of my mouth I realized that I’d once again spoken the quiet part out loud. The pernicious fantasy I’d been having about how I would tame the wild beast of the tower and then make him fall in love with me, kissing him silly through that ridiculous beard until we were both breathless, was supposed to have just stayed inside my head. Right? Did other people have the same problem I had with a lack of a filter or was I just congenitally incapable of holding my tongue around a man I found attractive? The world may never know because I literally just can’t stop myself sometimes.

“Your new ‘boyfriend’ huh?” Of course he’d picked up on that particular phrase. I was, by that point, blushing so hard that I think my face probably resembled a ripe tomato. But he didn’t let up. “Did I miss something or did we skip a few important steps.”

Instead of apologizing, though - because I didn’t see my Eggy as the type to respect someone who apologized without good cause - I decided to double down and just go for it. I mean, what the hell, right? ‘In for a penny, in for a pound’, my grandfather always said. So here was me, just laying it all out there and probably about to get shot down harder than any man’s ever been rejected in the history of men, but at least I was going down fighting, you know? Fuck it all and damn the torpedoes!

“Well, I wasn’t going to tell you until after our first official date - and by that point you’d have already fallen so head over heels in love with me that you’d be unable to say no to anything I asked - but I guess the cat’s out of the bag, so to speak. So, yeah, I’ve decided that you’re going to be my new boyfriend. You can try to fight it if you want, but I wouldn’t recommend it. I’m very persistent and I almost always get what I want. It’s pretty much already a done deal at this point,” I declared, shrugging and offering up one of my killer smiles, hoping that brash and relentless was a winning strategy.

“You are SUCH a fucking brat! You do know that, right?” was his only response which, all things considered, I thought was a good sign; I could work with annoying and bratty. “What if I don’t want a boyfriend? Agoraphobic guy here, remember? I need a boyfriend like I need a fucking hole in my head.”

“Ah, now, that’s not true. You need a boyfriend more than almost anyone I’ve ever met, Eggy. You need someone who’s going to draw you out of yourself. Get you out of your head. Introduce you to all the glorious wonders of this crazy world. And who better than me?” By that point he was just shaking his head, looking a little lost but amused enough by my approach that he wasn’t saying ‘no’. That, in turn, emboldened me. “So, we might as well get started. What do you want to do on our first real date? Personally, I’ve always thought the traditional dinner and a movie thing was a bit dull. And you’re probably not ready for the club scene, as fun as that can be . . .” Which is when Daphne’s whole lecture on Exposure Therapy came back to me and I knew this would give me the perfect excuse. “How about I just make dinner for you here, instead?” I offered.

“Dinner? You . . .” Poor Brian started to look a little panicked.

“Yeah. I’ll cook for you and we can chat and it’ll be great.” From the look on my man’s face, he definitely didn’t think it would be anything like great. “Come on, Eggy. Let me do this for you. Please. I promise it’ll be okay. I know you’ve got the whole germ thing but we can work around that, right? I’ll let you be in charge of the cleaning and you can watch me cooking so you’ll be able to see that it’s all done on the up and up. You’ll be fine. Trust me.”

 

**********

[Green Eyes by Cold Play](https://youtu.be/gmyq9tIiu8g). 

 

[ ERP Therapy ](http://www.psychiatrictimes.com/anxiety/exposure-therapy-anxiety-disorders)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/23/18 - This chapter was really fun to write. I think all writers out there will empathize with how you’re sometimes writing a scene and your character takes over your brain, making the chapter go a way you did not expect. We had that happen here. Justin took over this entire chapter, exerting his brattiest self, and he ended up taking the end of the chapter a completely different direction. Don’t you just love it when that happens? LOL. And, for those that are interested, there’s a link to a little info on the type of CBT we’re referencing Here. TAG & Sally.


	10. Food, Glorious Food!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys have their first date. Enjoy! TAG & Sally

  
  


Chapter 10 - Food, Glorious Food!

  
  
  


I didn’t get time to cook for my Stylite until that weekend because I actually did have to spend a few days studying for my finals in my other classes. It kinda sucked because I was really looking forward to treating him to a real meal for a change. However, it was probably good that the delay gave Brian a few more days to adjust to the idea. As it was, he was ridiculously anxious about the prospect - who knew a simple thing like cooking would freak him out so much? - but I wasn’t going to back down, so he was just going to have to deal.

 

I had still made time to at least stop in every afternoon, just to say ‘hi’ and bring my man his daily coffees. I tried a cappuccino and an almond milk latte, both of which he seemed to enjoy sniffing, but he still hadn’t tried a sip. That would come with time, though, I promised myself. I mean, I couldn’t have a boyfriend that didn’t share my love of coffee, could I?

 

By the time I finally finished my last final - History of The Impressionist Era - on Friday morning, I was more than ready to do this thing. I know I’d said I was going to make him dinner and it was only just barely lunchtime, but I didn’t think he'd mind such a minor technical discrepancy. If anything, it might seem a little less stressful if we were only working on a simple lunch instead of a full dinner. I figured I could do a fancy, multi-course dinner spread at a later time, after I’d broken him in to the concept. So I stopped at the market on the way and ended up at the Triangle Building with two heavy bags full of lunchtime groceries supplies.

 

“Who’s your favorite human, Bill?” I asked as William Shakespaw ambled down the stairs to greet me when I let myself into the main lobby. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

 

I popped open the top of one of those little cans of nasty-smelling wet cat food and I swear the silly feline practically wet himself with glee. I have no idea how anyone - even a cat - could bear to eat something that smelled so vile. Bill seemed ecstatic about it, though, so who am I to judge, right? I was just happy to know that I’d officially won him over, and winning over the cat would undoubtedly go a long way towards winning over the cat’s human. That was just a given, you know?

 

I left Bill slurping up his salmon cat mush and made my way upstairs with my grocery bag full of goodies, excited to show my Eggy just what I could do in a kitchen.

 

I knocked at the door to Brian’s living quarters and was pleasantly surprised when, after only a couple of seconds, the door was answered by my bearded beauty. Unfortunately, the timid smile that was peeking out from under all that hair fell as soon as he saw the shopping bags in my hands. It might have been comical if I didn’t feel so bad for him.

 

“I thought you were threatening me with dinner,” he looked at his watch and then back up at me, “which isn’t technically supposed to start for several hours. What’s all this?”

 

“Traditionally, the meal you eat in the middle of the day is called lunch. Unless it’s a weekend and then you can call it brunch. I don’t think you’re ready for brunch, though, so I decided to go with a simple, easy, comfort-food-type lunch,” I explained as I shouldered past him into his room and started to unpack my bags while Brian just stood there gaping at me.

 

“But . . . But . . . Uh . . .”

 

“Is it okay if I unload everything here?” I asked as I pointed to the countertop nearest the fridge. 

 

I could practically see the cogs in his brain turning as he thought over all the possible contamination risks that came with my groceries but, instead of complaining, he bravely shoved his hands deep into his pockets and just nodded his head. “Yeah . . . sure.”

 

I quickly began unloading my loot, which consisted of four cans of cream of tomato soup, the sharpest cheddar that I could find, freshly baked challah bread, and full-fat butter - it’s the only kind I’ll use, which isn’t the healthiest, I know, but it’s SO good - and two rich, dark chocolate brownies for dessert.

 

I could see Brian hovering out of the corner of my eye. “You wanna wipe this all down, don’t you?” I asked, knowing exactly what the problem was. 

 

He exhaled sharply and I could see the war going on in his brain; I wanted nothing more than to make that all go away for him, but I wasn’t giving up on my lunch plans, so I hoped there would be some kind of compromise. 

 

“Yeah . . . I do.” He mumbled his reply. 

 

“Here’s the deal,” I began, handing Brian the antibacterial wipes that were waiting by the sink. “You can do your thing . . . if you let me do mine.”

 

He took the wipes from my hand. “What do you mean?”

 

“Wipe down whatever you want, but you don’t get to interfere when I’m cooking.” I thought that sounded slightly harsh, so I continued. “You can sit right there,” I pointed to the bar stool, “and if I do anything that makes you uncomfortable - you just tell me, ‘kay?”

 

I watched as he thought this over. I knew I was asking a lot from Brian, but I was determined to make this lunch work. Happily for us both, he seemed to be agreeable to the compromise I was offering. He nodded his head and began wiping down the canned goods and plastic packaging of the food I’d bought, before giving the countertop itself a thorough wipe down as well. He then took out a saucepan and washed it out in the sink - doing the same with the chopping board and cutlery I would be using. 

 

“Okay, I think that should be good enough,” I grinned. “Now sit your ass down and get ready for the lunch of your life.”

 

He snorted quietly. “You’re a confident little shit, aren’t you?” 

 

“Yep,” I nodded, because I was - always had been, always would be. 

 

I could feel his eyes on me as I washed my hands at the sink, making sure to wash between my fingers and under my nails as thoroughly as I could. I even went as far as rubbing the soap a little ways up my arm. “Can I dry my hands on this?”  I asked, pointing my head towards a tea towel I saw hanging neatly over the oven handle. 

 

He jumped up. “Here, use this one,” he said, as he handed me a fresh one from the cupboard. 

 

I dried my hands and began preparing the lunch. 

 

“Four cans of soup?” He asked, watching as I opened and poured the contents of all four cans into a pan and placed it on one of the burners, letting it begin to simmer slowly. “There’s just the two of us, right? You didn’t invite guests or anything, didn't you?”

 

“No. I plan to keep you all to myself - at least for now,” I laughed and winked at him, because sometimes I just couldn’t stop myself from being a big flirt. “And I know four cans seems like a lot, but this is literally one of my favourite things to eat. I could probably finish all four on my own.” I probably shouldn’t sound so proud about that, but whatever, this meal is delicious. “How many sandwiches would you like?”

 

Brian’s eyebrows raised comically at this question. “One will be fine,” he laughed. “I’m not a pig,” he teased. 

 

I so badly wanted to throw the tea towel I’d just used at him, but stopped myself. That would no doubt gross him out and I was trying my best to be considerate of his issues. Instead, I just gave him another of my best bratty looks and went back to my cooking.

 

“Oh, damn, I seriously love the smell of freshly baked bread.” I moaned happily as I inhaled the aroma of the delicious smelling challah bread I planned to use for the sandwiches. “I swear, if they made a cologne that smelled like this, I’d totally wear it. Eau de Bread. What do you think?”

 

That made Brian laugh - like, a lot. “You’re so fucking weird.”

 

I shrugged my shoulders. I knew I was weird; this wasn’t new information to me. I leaned across the table and waved the still wrapped loaf of bread in front of Brian’s face. 

 

“Lean forward a little.”

 

He did as I asked, albeit a little reluctantly, but when he was close enough I ran the loaf under his nose, making sure that in the process nothing touched him. 

 

“Now, tell me that’s not the nicest thing you've ever smelled?”

 

He inhaled again and made a quiet little appreciative noise in the back of his throat that was one of the sexiest sounds I had heard from him. 

 

“Well?” I asked . . . because if I didn’t say something right then I would focus on that sound he’d just made and getting a hard on during lunch probably wasn’t very good manners, right? 

 

“Mmm, yeah, it smells really good,” he admitted. 

 

I grinned triumphantly and gave the loaf one last quick sniff before I sliced off a couple slices and began buttering them. For some reason this was never the cleanest of tasks for me and I somehow always managed to get butter all over my fingers. The urge to lick the butter off was intense and for a brief moment I wondered if his urges felt like this? Like there was some weird magnetic pull making him have to do the things he did? This was definitely something I would have to ask him - just not today. Next I gave the pan a quick stir, making sure the soup was cooking slowly without ever reaching the boiling point. 

 

“Right, the soup will be ready soon, so I’m just going to pop the sandwiches into a frying pan. You have one, right?” He went to stand up but I gestured with my hand indicating he could stay seated. “I’ll get it. Just tell me where is it.”

 

“The cupboard to your right,” he replied quietly. 

 

I took the pan out and washed it thoroughly, hearing him finally exhale the breath he’d obviously been holding in while waiting anxiously to see what I would do. I smiled over at him, giving him one of my biggest grins. Knowing that I’d probably relieved some of his anxiety made me feel good. I know Daphne said I shouldn’t feed his rituals, but one thing at a time, right? Then I added the sandwiches to the pan and let them sizzle away for a bit so they’d get nice and toasty brown and melty inside. 

 

“Mmm,” Brian hummed happily as the combined aroma of tomato soup and grilling sandwiches filled the room, “it smells pretty good.”

 

“Don’t sound so surprised. I told you it would be great. I promise, you’re going to love this,” I insisted as I continued to stir the pot of tomato soup. “When I was a kid, this was one of my favorite meals ever. I used to beg my mother to make it for me any time the weather got cold or rainy - which is why I thought about it this morning, I suppose, since it’s ridiculously cold out there today. There’s nothing better than a cup of soup and a gooey cheese sandwich to fight the chills, right?”

 

“I wouldn’t know,” Brian replied, looking uncomfortable, and for some reason I just knew that this time the lack of comfort wasn’t caused by his fear of my contaminating his kitchen but from something coming from inside him. 

 

“Well, what did your mother make you instead? If there’s something else you’d prefer - cuz we all have our own comfort foods, right? - I could make that next time.”

 

“There’s going to be a next time?” he asked, the anxiety resurfacing again for a moment. “I think it would have been easier if you’d just broken in, stolen shit and vandalized the place, like a normal burglar.”

 

“Too bad for you, cuz I’m the much more dangerous type of burglar - I’m out to steal your heart,” I announced in my most over-the-top, sappy, bratiest voice ever. 

 

And then we both broke out laughing at how campy that had sounded. I didn’t care, though. I figured my hermit needed as much laughter in his life as I could supply. Even if that laughter involved me making an idiot out of myself. 

 

“But, seriously, I do love to cook and there’s no reason you shouldn’t benefit from my amazing culinary skills. Especially since you insist you can’t cook. So, just tell me what you like to eat and I’ll make it for you.” When my man just shrugged without actually voicing any preference, though, I knew something was up. “You don’t have any favorites? Or you really don’t want me here cooking?”

 

Brian didn’t answer right away, though. He seemed to be struggling with HOW to answer me. Like, there were words inside him that wanted to come out, but that he was trying to smother. I shook my head and turned around so I was concentrating on flipping the grilled cheese sandwiches instead of staring at him. If he didn’t want to say, or maybe just needed some time to figure out how he wanted to say it, I could give him a few seconds to pull himself together. Instead, I devoted myself to adding a dash of Worcestershire sauce to the soup and cutting some cubes of the cheddar cheese to add to the pot as well, because you really could never have too much sharp cheddar, could you? And it seemed to work. Without me staring him down, Eggy seemed better able to work through whatever his demons were in order to find his words. 

 

Just as I was adding the cheese to the soup, he finally spoke up. “I don’t really have one of those - comfort foods - because I didn’t have a mom to make them for me.”

 

That caught me off guard. “You didn’t have a mom?” I asked, fighting off the impulse to spin around and confront him on this very important detail.

 

“Of course I had a mom. She just didn’t make me any special food or anything. At least, not that I remember. She died when I was just a kid. If she ever cooked for me before then, I don’t remember.”

 

Wow! Just, wow. So that would definitely explain a fucking lot about my Eggy’s issues, right? No mother to care for him? Talk about traumatic. How was I supposed to respond to something like that, though? I didn’t want to make him feel pathetic or anything, but I still needed to acknowledge what he’d said. I wished that Daphne was there right then because she would totally know the right thing to say here. But since I was on my own, I decided to go with detached empathy and hope it was good enough while still not suffocating him.

 

“That sucks. So, what happened to your mom?” I asked, without looking at him directly. 

 

“Both my parents and my older sister were killed in a car wreck. I was the only one in the car that survived, actually. The car hit some ice and went over an embankment into the river. They didn’t make it,” he explained, his words halting and syncopated as he struggled to verbalize something that was obviously horrifying in a way that didn’t betray too much emotion. “I don’t actually remember the accident. I was asleep. I have no idea how I was the only one that survived. But, anyway, that’s why I didn’t have a mom to cook for me, at least not that I can remember. And my asshole grandfather - who was forced to take me in because I didn’t have anyone else - didn’t cook. So, no, I don’t have any comfort food favorites.”

 

Can I just say I HATED the emotionless, empty, disconnected way he relayed that sad story? He lost his whole family when he was just a fucking kid? That’s, like, some serious Hallmark Channel shit right there. But yet he told it as though it had happened to someone else.

 

“How old were you?” I asked.

 

“Six.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Damn. I’d really like to offer to hug you, but I know that’s not going to happen so, is there anything I CAN do right now?” I offered, feeling totally at a loss for what to do or say in a situation like this. 

 

“You’ve already invaded my home and are apparently forcing me to eat your fucking tomato soup, what more do you plan to do? Adopt me?” He was such a snarky little boy, wasn’t he - good thing I like sarcastic, snarky men. “It’s no biggie. I survived. In spite of everything that bastard Donal tried to throw at me. 

 

“You’re fucking strong, you know that?” Despite the fact that I hadn’t known this man for very long, I already knew he’d brush off what I was saying, but I still felt like it was something he needed to hear, whether he liked it or not. 

 

And right on cue, I watched him twist uncomfortably in his seat at my words. Eggy was fucking adorable sometimes, you know? I didn’t want to make it harder for him, though, so I just smiled at him as I served our meal. 

 

“Here you go,” I said, pouring out two bowlsful of the piping hot soup and putting the sandwiches on plates. “Bon Appetit,” I announced as I started to look around to figure out where to serve the food now that I’d finished cooking it. 

 

Brian cleared his throat again, a sound I was really starting to love. “I, uh . . . I was thinking . . . If this is supposed to be a real ‘date’ . . . then we should probably eat this somewhere other than the coffee table.”

 

“You can stop right there with the air quotes, mister,” I laughed. “This IS a real date.” Then I looked around the room once more. “What do you propose we do? We can’t eat here at the counter since you only have the one bar stool, and you’re saying the coffee table is a no no, so . . . ?”

 

“Follow me,” my Eggy replied mysteriously, standing up and pulling out a tray from a different cupboard. 

 

I let him take control of the food and watched as he gingerly carried the small wooden tray filled with our lunch out the door and down the hall. I followed him, wondering where the hell he was taking me. We passed his grandfather’s study and a few other closed doors - each, assumedly, leading into rooms I had yet to explore - until we reached our destination, which was an elaborate double-doored entryway into the room at the very end of the hall. Brian opened the door using his elbow and stood back so that I could see where we were. 

 

The room he’d led me to was fairly large, definitely bigger than I had expected, and it looked like an old corporate boardroom or something, complete with a massively large table filling the center of the space. The walls were covered in dark wood paneling and decorated with antique artwork and photos of stern-looking men scowling at the cameras. An equally dark, wood floor was partially covered with a thick, expensive-looking oriental carpet. If it weren’t for the bank of large windows lining both walls - this room occupying the apex of one of the points of the building’s triangular foundations - it would have been dark and foreboding. As it was, the room just seemed to exude an ideal of impenetrable weath. It was very imposing; a room suitable for high powered board meetings and intense merger discussions between barons of industry and the like. 

  
  


But sure, I supposed it could also work as an informal dining room, if you were having a cozy lunch with your wanna-be boyfriend . . .

 

“Is this okay?” Brian asked, sounding a little unsure of himself.

 

“Sure. It’s very . . . very . . . very formal,” I settled on a word I hoped wasn’t too judgmental. “Perfect for our first formal date, right?”

 

“I know it’s a bit stuffy, but at least here we have an actual table,” he reasoned, setting the tray down on the near end of the big wooden conference table. 

 

While Brian was wiping down the table - did he have those little packets of wipes EVERYWHERE? - and setting out the plates, making sure that they were lined up precisely and all the silverware was in the correct place and . . . well, you get the picture, right? . . . I pretended to examine the portraits hanging on the walls, so as to give my man time to get through all his little rituals. Most were of old men and not very interesting, although I was slightly impressed to see that I recognized a few of the names engraved on the frames. It would have been pretty remarkable if these men really had all spent time in this board room. Titans of industry indeed. They all looked like they had broomsticks shoved up their asses, though, if you asked me.

 

The only one of the pictures that was at all interesting was a small portrait of a younger man, seated face on to the camera, wearing a cute little bow tie and his hair slicked to the side as he smirked out of his dark wood frame. For some old dude who’d lived about a hundred years ago, he was hot. He gave off a bit of a ‘Ye Olde Twink’ vibe, if you asked me. Not that I was into twinks, you know, being one myself and all, but I could see the attraction. It was the name on the brass nameplate affixed to the bottom edge of the frame that really got my attention, though - William J. Carnegie. That was a name anyone who’d grown up in The Pitts would immediately recognize. It made me wonder how this boy was related to the more famous Carnegie men, since I’d never heard of sweet young William.

  
  


While I had been busy ogling the young hottie on the wall, Brian had continued on with his cleaning unabated. However, when there were no other pictures to look at I decided it was time to move this lunch along. I turned back to survey the status on our lunch arrangements and was glad to see that my Eggy seemed to be winding things up. Once the mandatory wipe down had been completed, we took our seats at the large boardroom, cum dining, table. Brian took the seat at the head of the table, and I took a seat on his right.

 

“Dig in before it gets cold,” I urged, picking up my spoon and swirling it around in my steaming bowl of soup. 

 

I could see the hesitation in his eyes as he looked down at the food in front of him. I sighed and set down my spoon again. It looked like I was going to have to dish out some tough love along with the soup today.

 

“Hey, Egbert. Look at me,” I demanded, waiting until he reluctantly looked up from the suspect bowl, his hand clenched so tightly around the handle of the spoon that I could see his knuckles going white. “You watched me cook it, right?” He nodded begrudgingly. “I washed my hands and you cleaned everything else from the cans to the pans, right?” Another nod. “So . . . there’s no way anything bad could be in there. And even if there had been, the heat from cooking the food should kill any germs off. Which means you’ll be just fine eating it.” He looked back down at the bowl and just scrunched up his mouth a way that made me think of a kid contemplating the unpleasant prospect of his brussels sprouts - something that I would have normally laughed at if it hadn’t meant that I’d be offending my Stylite. “At least try it. Please? I swear to fuck that you’re going to love it. It’s, like, manna from the gods good. I promise.”

 

I saw him swallow, take in a deep breath, and squint his eyes almost all the way closed as he finally reached for his spoon. I was leaning forward, as if I could will him to do it just by directing all the energy in my body towards him. I held my breath too, waiting to see what he would decide. In my head I was chanting, ‘come on. You can do it. Come on. You can do it . . .’ And when he finally dipped the spoon into the still-steaming soup, I think I kinda squeaked in anticipation even. Luckily it wasn’t loud enough to distract him, and my boy spooned up a nice, healthy spoonful of the tomatoey goodness, then quickly opened his mouth and shoved the implement in, as if hoping that by doing it all in a rush that way, he’d get through it without chickening out. 

 

Of course, that first bite of creamy, hot soup was more than enough to win him over and I saw his eyes pop open in delight as he swallowed. 

 

“So? What do you think? Good, huh?”

 

“It’s . . . not bad.”

 

“Not bad? Not BAD? That’s all you’re going to say?”

 

“Yeah.” He took another mouthful of the soup and then another. “It’s edible.”

 

“You’re a tough man to please, Egbert,” I shook my head at him and then went back to my own food, breaking a handful of saltine crackers over my bowl to add a little texture to the soup.

 

“What do you want me to say?” he asked as he continued to ladle in the delicious warm yumminess.

 

“You could say that it’s wonderful. Ambrosial. The best thing you’ve ever had in your mouth. Your most favorite meal ever,” I offered as suggestions, although by that point I was just giving him shit because I could see by the green gleam of his eyes he was teasing me too. “Oh, but don’t forget the sandwich. You have to eat them both together to get the full effect. They come as a pair. The soup and the cheese together . . . it’s to die for. Trust me.” He looked at his sandwich but didn’t reach for it and I wanted to scream, because, really? We were going to have to go through this with every individual piece of food, every time? Sheesh. “Go on, already, Eggy. The sandwich too. Hurry up before it’s cold.”

 

He seemed to look around for a minute as if confused before asking, “where’s the rest of the utensils?”

 

“Utensils? For a sandwich?” 

 

It took me a minute but then I got it - he didn’t want to touch the sandwich with his fingers. I was gonna have to take control here, it seemed. So took hold of my own grilled cheese, used my fingers to break off a bite from the edge where I’d cut the bread into a triangle, and popped it into my mouth. Demonstration complete. 

 

“Easy-peasy, right?” I asked after I’d swallowed the bite I had taken, refraining from licking my greasy fingers afterwards. “You can do it, Eggy. Just try, okay?”

 

It was like the soup all over again. He spent a good minute or two contemplating that damned sandwich, his agitation showing in the way his knee began to nervously bounce in place. It was like he wanted to try it so badly that his frustration with himself was beginning to upset him. Then he somehow managed to screw up his courage, holding his breath as he reached out with tentative fingers, and just barely touched the crusts of the sandwich bread long enough to hold it steady while he tore off a piece. Then he quickly shoved the bite in his mouth before he could change his mind. I watched this whole process with amusement and somehow managed not to say anything. Frankly, though, I was more interested in the result than the process itself, and I was gratified when he finally started chewing the bite he’d taken, breaking into a bit of a smile at the taste. 

 

“Don’t tell me . . . it’s ‘not bad’, right?” I kidded him as I took another bite for myself. “Fuck that - it’s delicious and you know it!”

 

“It’s alright,” he responded, but I saw the way he eagerly broke off another piece of the cheesy goodness to savor. 

 

“You can also do this,” I prompted, picking up the remainder of my second triangle of sandwich and dunking the point into the soup before slurping up the now-soggy sandwich/soup combo. “I know it’s an advanced technique - the dunking - but I think you’re up to it. Go on. It’s even better tasting together.”

 

I think, at that point, my Egbert was just so committed to the entire lunch program - germs and all - that he had given up fighting me, because he actually did what I’d showed him and dunked his sandwich. He didn’t even freak out when a tiny drop of soup dripped onto his chin. He just whipped out one of his wipes, cleaned off the dribble and carried on like a fucking pro. Was it silly that I was so incredibly proud of my boy just for eating a sandwich and some damned soup? I didn’t care. I was just so impressed that he was willing to try for me. Yeah, I could SO do this whole hermit boyfriend thing. 

 

After we had finished eating and had both wiped our plates clean - figuratively speaking of course - I sat there feeling ridiculously full and so incredibly pleased with my man. To some, this might have been seen as a relatively small accomplishment, but to me, it was huge. As I was sitting there, lost in thought, I noticed Brian reach for his hand wipes, but hesitating briefly. It was like I could almost hear the argument that was running through his brain; ‘I’ve done so well, but now look at what I’m doing. It’s like one step forward, a million steps back.’ 

 

“Hey,” I said, hopefully distracting him from those ruminant thoughts. “Give me one of those, will you?” I nodded towards the wipes. “My hands always feel so greasy and gross after I eat a cheese sandwich, you know?”

 

He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” I nodded. “It’s okay to want to wash your hands after you eat. In fact, it’s perfectly normal.”

 

That seemed to make my Brian happy. For once, one of his little rituals actually made sense to someone other than him. So there we sat, both wiping the grease from our hands with stupid smiles on our faces. Now, wasn’t that about as sickly sweet as you could possibly hope for on a first date?  

 

**********

  
[ Food, Glorious Food! from Oliver. ](https://youtu.be/ly7PONiKGUs)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/16/18 - What did you guys think? We know this Brian is OOC to a large extent, but we’re trying to make him still the same man underneath it all. As one of our reviewers said, ‘So many psychological issues but he took his self-preservation in a different direction - he aimed in inward instead of outward. He keeps *himself* away from others rather than keeping others at arm’s length’ (Thank you, NoChaser, for your spot-on analysis.) That’s how we see this Brian too. Hope you readers enjoyed it. Now, what other brattiness can we get Justin up to... TAG & Sally.


	11. Love In The Afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once you feed a stray cat or a burglar, you can never get rid of them . . . Enjoy! TAG & Sally

 

Chapter 11 - Love In The Afternoon.

  
  


“So, what were you writing about before I interrupted you?” I asked, just to be conversational, as we gathered our dirty dishes up after the successful luncheoning.

 

“Today was an online manual for how to print file folder labels using this new online application,” Brian answered, sounding bored even as he detailed how complicated the process was. “It’s actually my third draft at this stuff. The company I’m doing this for has workshopped their app a couple of times but no matter how simple I make the instructions, it seems people just can’t figure it out. Personally, I think the people they’re trying to train are complete morons who should just stick to their old typewriters, but I can’t very well tell my client that, so . . . This is me working up a third attempt. Maybe I’ll just draw pictures or something? I don’t know.”

 

“I didn’t know you could draw,” I commented as I picked up the tray with our stuff and headed back down the hall to my hermit’s room. 

 

“I can’t. Not unless stick figures constitute drawing. But the company has other people for that. I just scribble something and add the words, and the company fills in the pictures later. Sometimes that’s the best way to do complicated shit like this. Nobody actually takes the time to read the instructions for anything these days anyway.”

 

That got a laugh out of me because it was so true and, unfortunately, I was one of those reprobates that generally refused to read the instructions. At least not till I’d tried whatever it was three or four times and failed completely. THEN I’d go back, read the fucking instructions, and mentally berate myself for being such a damned idiot in the first place. I felt for my Eggy, having to deal with twats like myself. It must be terribly frustrating. 

 

“So, should I offer to help wash up or just step out of the way and let the Master of Clean take over and do it the right way the first time?” I asked, trying to convey that it was okay for him to do his OCD thing now and I wouldn’t judge. 

 

The relief on his face said even more than his words: “I think I’ve got this.”

 

So I set the tray on the counter next to his sink, held my hands up in a gesture of surrender, and deliberately stepped away. Brian rolled his eyes at my theatricality and then eagerly took my place at the counter, pulling on a pair of the latex gloves I’d seen him unpack from his groceries earlier in the week, and starting the water running in the sink. Even now I could see that there were an excessive number of rituals that he had to follow - who knew washing dishes could be so fucking complicated, huh? Good thing I hadn’t offered to help, because I was woefully unprepared for this amount of dishwashing mastery.

 

First, my OCD beauty scraped all the scraps of food off the plates into the garbage disposal, his nose crinkling up in disgust at the wet, obviously contaminated, food remains. Once that had been taken care of, and the noisy disposal run for a full minute or more, he placed all the dishes in the one side of the sink that had been filled to the top with hot soapy water. I was actually amazed at how much soap he’d used for such a small pile of plates. The bubbles were practically overflowing the bounds of the sink by the time he was done. Each plate was then wiped with an equally over-soaped sponge before being placed in the water to, apparently, soak away any residual germiness. After they’d stewed in their soapy bath for however long he thought was necessary, Brian took each one up and gave it a thorough scrubbing with his sponge, back and front, going over the surface of each plate and bowl at least five times. Finally, the bubbles were rinsed off and the plates put into a pristine-clean, stainless steel drying rack to drip for a bit. When all the dishes were cleaned, he turned to drying and putting away the dishes in his cupboards, before emptying the sink and washing it - yes, he washed the sink that had been full of dish soap - then wiping down the counter and the tray with cleanser and spray cleanser. 

 

Needless to say, the dish washing took for fucking ever, and I was bored long before the last dish was put away. I gave up watching and planted myself on Brian’s sofa again - in the place I was beginning to think of as ‘my spot’ - pulling out my sketchpad to doodle away the time while I waited for him. Since I’d just finished my last final, and didn’t have anything more to do for the rest of the day, I was a bit at loose ends. The only item I’d had on my agenda for the day was feeding my Eggy, and with that accomplished, I was free as a bird for the duration and not in any hurry to leave. Maybe I could convince my new hermit boyfriend to do something else fun with me for the afternoon? 

 

“You just making yourself at home over there?” Egbert asked, when he’d finally finished his washing thing and noticed I’d planted myself on his sofa yet again. 

 

“Mmhmm,” I grinned as I gave a little stretch like a sleepy kitten.

 

I could feel Eggy’s eyes on me as I made myself comfortable and it was only then that I realized my t-shirt had risen up, revealing a slither of my pale stomach. The way his eyes were laser focused on my middle, made me tingle. I felt like asking, ‘See anything you like?’ but knew that would be putting way too much pressure on my guy. He wasn’t ready for the full Taylor Tummy Temptation, no matter how much I would have loved for him to go there. So, reluctantly, I pulled my shirt lower and released him from the mesmerizing effects that glimpse of my skin had caused. He blinked and sighed and then he finally looked me in the eyes, giving a little shake of his head as if to clear it. Poor man, he didn’t realize how hooked on me he already was . . . But if I had anything to say about it, he soon would.

 

“So, uh. I really need to get back to work,” Brian muttered almost sadly as he nodded his head towards the doorway that led down to his office. “You’re welcome to stay if you want . . . ?” I could hear the question in his voice but knew he wouldn’t ask me to stay - not directly anyway - and I got the biggest thrill out of the realization that he didn’t want me to go to. “It’s up to you. What do you wanna do?”

 

I didn’t answer right away, but when I did, I was surprised by what came out of my mouth. “Do you want me to answer that question honestly? Or would you rather I made something up?”

 

Damn, I think I shocked him. Again. He would probably, eventually, get used to that, but for the time being, it was still fun to mess with him. I was a little bit evil like that. If he wanted me, though, he’d have to learn to love my shockingness. It was part of my charm. 

 

Brian shoved his hands deep into his pockets and I could see his tongue poking into the side of his cheek as he thought over his response to my question. “My brain is telling me to ask for the safe option and have you make something up, but . . .”

 

“But you want me to be honest with you, right?” I asked, loving how brave my man was being with me; there was nothing I respected more than a man who was scrupulously honest and nothing I despised more than someone who played games, so Brian’s plain and simple honesty as he grappled with his emotions like that was probably the biggest turn on I’d ever seen.

 

Eventually, he reached his conclusion, nodded his head, and then immediately turned his body away so that he was no longer looking directly at me, as if to provide a smaller target for whatever he imagined was coming. 

 

“What I WANT to do is to kiss you, like, really, really want to kiss you.”

 

I heard him gasp quietly, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me from continuing. He wanted me to be honest with him, right? This was me being totally honest. 

 

“You have no idea how much I want to wrap my arms around your waist and bury my face in your neck.” 

 

I groaned as I said the words, but fuck it, I wasn’t going to let myself be embarrassed. Hell no! I wanted - no, needed - him to know how much I wanted him. I felt kinda guilty looking, but my eyes couldn’t help but wander down towards his crotch and I wasn’t disappointed by seeing what my words were doing to him. He obviously felt the same as I did, even if he wouldn’t let himself act on those feelings. And the sight made my own yearnings even more intense, to the point I could almost feel every cell in my body straining to get nearer to this enigmatic man. If only I didn’t have to hold back. I couldn’t act on those feeling though, at least not yet, so I forced myself to relax back into the sofa cushions and gave him the out I knew he needed. 

 

“It’s okay, though. I know you’re not ready.”

 

Brian exhaled loudly, the frustration between what he so clearly wanted and what his brain was telling him was obviously getting to him as much as it was getting to me.

 

“Really, it’s okay,” I smiled. “But I didn't want there to be any confusion between us, you know? I really like you.” Thank fuck no one else was there to hear me say that, because it sounded so middle school coming out of my mouth, but if we were being honest, it's what I wanted. “And I want to kiss you. Whenever you’re ready.”

 

“It’s . . .” Brian cleared his throat and for the briefest of moments I was scared he was going to shut me down - tell me ‘thanks a lot, but I’m not interested’ - but then he started rubbing at his beard and all I wanted to do was go over there and pull at his hands to stop him from fidgeting. “It’s not that I don’t want to. You know that . . . right?” 

 

I heard myself internally squeeing - at least I hope it was all internal. “I know.”

 

“I’m fucking messed up, Justin . . .”

 

“Brian . . .”

 

“Let me finish, please?” he begged. “I’m messed up - don’t think I don’t know that - I have so many issues . . . My parents . . . My grandfather . . . I . . . Fuck it, I just find it hard to trust . . . well, pretty much anything, you know? And I . . . Shit, I have no fucking idea how to fix . . . this,” he said, waving his hand wildly in front of him. “It’s like my brain is fighting against me all the time. One part of me wants to give in to you, but the other side won’t let me. And it’s fucking exhausting.”

 

“So, let me help you.” 

 

He scoffed. “I think I’m beyond help, Justin.”

 

“You’re not beyond help, Brian. Do you realize how far you’ve come just since we met? You should be fucking proud of yourself. I know I am,” I insisted, because he obviously needed to be told that - repeatedly - since he clearly hadn’t internalized the sentiment. 

 

I didn’t think it was possible with all that facial hair to see him blush, but I did. 

 

“Besides, how do you know you’re beyond help? Do you have a degree in psychology hidden away in your past I don’t know about yet?”

 

“Not that I’m aware of, no,” he chuckled, and I could hear the relief as well as the nervousness in that small sound of amusement. “Just a regular online degree in marketing.”

 

“Ooh, fancy.”

 

“Not really, but it does help with the technical writing thing - half of what I do is subliminally sell the product after the fact to the consumer. So there’s, maybe, a little psychology involved in there.”

 

“But nothing that would help with a clinical diagnosis of your mental health issues or qualify you to give the conclusion that you’re beyond help. And even then I wouldn’t believe it. I see potential somewhere under that beard, Mr. Kinney, and you’ll soon learn to just accept that I’m always right about this shit,” I declared determinedly enough that nobody would have dared argue with me. “So, you let me be the judge of whether or not you’re too messed up for me, okay? I promise I’m not easily scared off. And in the meantime, you, mister, need to get your butt back to work.”

 

“And what are you going to do?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest. 

 

“I have my sketchbook with me. So, if you don’t mind the company, I’ll just make myself comfortable and create a new masterpiece. Sound good?”

 

He huffed and shook his head. “Like I said before, just like the fucking stray cat,” he mumbled under his breath, but I could see he wasn’t really all that upset at my announcement that I was staying put. 

 

“It’s true, you know, once you feed us, we never go away,” I teased him. “I think you’re stuck with me forever now, Egbert.”

 

That earned me a chuckle, but since he didn’t argue or try to get me to leave, I knew I’d won, so let him laugh. 

 

When he started to head out of the room, I picked up my bag and sketchpad and followed, making myself at home in one of his big, stuffed, armchairs, while my man went back to his laptop on the desk. And that was that. We just sat there together, not saying anything much and not even really looking at each other, for the rest of the afternoon. But it was probably the best afternoon I’d had in ages. I mean it. I hadn’t felt that content and at ease with another guy . . . well, ever . . . Strange, huh? But there was something about being with Brian that was somehow freeing. It felt like I didn’t have to pretend with him. I wasn’t trying to impress him or live up to unattainable standards. We were both just there and okay with each other, warts and all, and there was nobody around to judge us. It was the most peaceful I’d felt, probably in my whole fukcing life. So, even though I would normally be freaking out if things had moved this quickly with any other man, I was just fine with our quiet, content, companionable afternoon of doing nothing together. 

 

It was also proving to be quite good for my art. I’d done three pretty remarkable sketches of my Hermit while I lounged the afternoon away, and all of them were pretty good, even I did say so myself. I was in the middle of shading part of Brian’s profile on sketch number four - I’d started sketching out some of the detail of wood panellings behind him but quickly got bored - when I was startled by something brushing against my legs. I looked up and caught Bill running passed me at lighting speed, jumping up when he was still a good meter or so from the desk, and making himself nice and comfortable on his person’s lap. Brian didn’t even flinch when the cat launched itself onto him - the big, old, softie - instead he simply continued on with what he was doing as if nothing had happened. I stopped myself from laughing because I didn’t want to interrupt the love, but there was something so fucking adorable about the big guy petting the cat he claimed not to want. Meanwhile Brian just carried on, typing away with one hand while the other aimlessly stroked Bill behind his ears, causing the kitty to purr in pure delight. 

 

Okay, this was definitely going to be my next sketch. 

 

After a while, though, my fingers started to cramp up, which happens when I get totally lost in my art for, like, a bazillion hours. “Hey,” I cracked my knuckles to try and release some of the pressure I felt building up in them. “While you’re still busy writing, do you mind if I take another look at the dining room? There was some interesting artwork in there, I’d love to see if I can replicate some of it maybe.”

 

Brian turned to me and nodded. “Knock yourself out, Brat,” he said, going straight back to his laptop - like I said, total ease with each other already.

 

Brian might have continued tapping away at his computer, but at least Bill The Cat decided to join me on my explorations, so I had some company as I made my way back down the hall. The hallway itself was a little musty and dark - probably par for the course in a building of this age - and the walls showed the expected nicks and knocks in the paneling, but it was spotlessly clean, of course. The few pieces of art on the walls here were mostly boring old landscapes and still life pieces that didn’t really do much for me. Definitely nothing worth writing home about. But, then again, who ever looks at the artwork in a hallway, right? The stuff in that old board room, however, was another thing altogether. The big cubist painting in the center of the back wall had been particularly promising and I really wanted another look at it. 

 

Bill beat me into the boardroom, jumping right up on the top of the big table and marching down the center of the expanse, his tail held high, as if he was in charge of the world. Gotta love a cat who knew his worth, right? Or was that all cats . . . Whatever. Bill didn’t care so why should I? Anyway, I left him to his strutting and made my way to the painting I’d wanted to examine.

 

While the two longer walls of the room were mostly windows, with only short stretches of actual wall between, the wall at the end of the room closest to the center of the building was a solid expanse broken only by the big double entry doors. The ceilings in here were fairly tall, so that left plenty of space over the top of the transom for a sizable painting to be displayed in its full glory. And the painting that held this place of honor was definitely worthy of the spot it held. 

  
  


At first glance, the work was simplistic, which meant that a lot of non-artists might overlook it. The colors were a bit drab - olive greens and greys and rust reds - but the composition was unique. For those of us in the know, it was an almost perfect example of the early cubist school which, assuming it was an original, placed it somewhere around the beginning of the 20th century - maybe slightly earlier, as this particular piece was clearly a frontrunner of that movement. The lines were precise and clean and the colors were intense despite the fact that this painting was ostensibly over a hundred years old. My artist’s eye clearly picked up the theme of painting - a still life depiction of the artist’s desk - built as it was out of large cubes of color. It was fucking beautiful, actually. And, unless I was wrong - and I might be because I couldn’t see any signature on the piece - I thought I actually recognized it as being one of the works of my own distant ancestor, Henry Fitch Taylor. I wondered if my Stylite knew he was sitting on a fucking fortune of art here; not that he would probably care, but I happened to know for a fact that another of this artist’s works was in the damned Smithsonian, so . . . Yeah, he probably had no idea what he had here.

 

In an attempt to try and get an even better look at the painting than I could get way down here on the floor, I ended up pulling one of the chairs over closer to the wall and positioning it off to the right of the doors. I climbed up on the chair, bracing myself against the wall to maintain my balance, while I tried to cram my neck around far enough to peek over the edge of the frame in the lower right hand corner where I suspected the signature might be. I couldn't quite get high enough though, so I tried lifting one foot up to the top of the seat back and hooked my fingers over the top of the moulding on the wall and sorta lifted myself as high as I could without toppling over and . . .

 

There was an audible *click* and the entire panel of the wall where I’d been leaning started to move, creaking inward and causing me to topple ass-backwards off the chair onto the floor below. 

 

What the actual hell? 

 

“Um . . . Brian?” I yelled out as loud as I could, hoping my voice carried all the way down the hall. “I think I broke your house.”

 

I could hear footsteps coming at a fast pace down the hall towards me almost immediately. At the same time Bill, who’d jumped down off the table to investigate why I was lying on the floor, began to sniff at me and meow in sympathy for my plight. I reached out to pet at the beast, silently thanking him for his concern. But, just as I was about to attempt to get back up to my feet, Bill left off his concern for me and took up an interest in the intriguing new hole in the wall in front of me.

 

“What the fuck?” Brian exclaimed, barrelling around the corner and finding me lying before the large crack in the wall of his dining room.

 

“I’m sooooooo sorry, Brian. I was just trying to see over the edge of the frame of that picture,” I pointed to the painting, “and I started to fall so I grabbed onto the top of the moulding on the wall there and the next thing I knew the whole panel had swung inwards. How bad is it damaged?”

 

From my place on the floor I could see the confusion written all over Brian’s face - even though his face was upside down to me. “What the hell is this?” he asked as he stepped over me and attempted to peer into the hole. 

 

As Brian touched the panel that had seemed to break, it creaked open even further. I couldn’t see anything through the gaping black crack in the wall except that whatever hole was back there was dusty and lightless. The smell of damp  mustiness that exuded from the space wasn’t encouraging. I saw my poor OCD Boy yank his hand back as fast as he could move it, because, yeah, dust and yuck and who knew what else could be back there, right? Even I wasn’t keen on musty holes in the wall.

 

Bill, on the other hand, was absolutely fascinated by whatever it was he smelled wafting up from that dank nothingness. Before anyone even realized what was going on, Bill had padded up to the crack in the wall, nosed at the panel so as to push the opening even wider, and then just disappeared into the darkness beyond.

 

“Bill! Where the fuck are you going? Bill, get back here!” Brian yelled at the cat who, of course, ignored him, because cats aren’t big on obeying, especially not when there’s an exciting new place with new smells to explore. “Shit! What’s he doing in there?  William, you get your furry little ass out here right now! Damn it, he’s going to get stuck in the walls or something . . .”

 

By that point I had finally managed to roll over and crawl to my feet, trying not to think about the fact that my ass was throbbing and sore because of my fall. I didn’t think it was possible to break your ass - at least not one as well padded as mine was, thank you very much - but even if I had broken something, I had other things to worry about right then, so the pain in my ass would have to wait. First, I’d have to deal with the cat pain in my Eggy’s ass. 

 

“I’ll get him out,” I promised, knowing that there was no way in hell that my neat freak wannabe boyfriend would ever in a million years be able to venture into that dank hole, beloved cat or not. 

 

I pushed against the panel again, causing it to swing all the way backward into the space that had been opened up in the wall. The area behind was pitch black; all you saw was the foot or so that was illuminated by the lights in the room. That small glimpse revealed a tight, tunnel-like space with rough wood walls, leading to even more blackness. There was no sign of the fucking cat even once I’d stuck my head in a little ways and called out for the beast. All I got for my troubles was a lungful of dust that caused an almost instantaneous sneezing attack.

 

Egbert handed me a wad of tissues - I was too busy sneezing to see where he got them from, or did he just come pre-supplied with germ protection items, who knew? - and I eventually mopped myself up, shoving the used tissues into my pocket to deal with later. Then I pulled my phone out and swiped at the flashlight icon so I could use it to light my way. The first thing the light revealed was a virtual curtain of dirty cobwebs blocking the opening just behind the panel that had now swung all the way open till it was flush up against a wall on the right. I could sense poor Brian recoiling from the horror of all that dust and dirt without even looking at him. Not that I was exactly thrilled by the prospect myself, mind you. But, since there was no sign of Bill anywhere in my flashlight app’s reach, it didn’t seem I had a choice.

  
  


Holding one of the remaining tissues over my nose and mouth to try and fend off any additional sneezing fits, I steeled my resolve and reached out with my other hand to brush away the cobwebs before stepping through the small opening. I had to keep hunched over because the space was not exactly large, but it did appear to open up a little bit after a few feet. With my phone held out in front of me, I advanced one step at a time, feeling with my toes as I went to make sure the boards under me were solid. Luckily, before I was more than a meter inside the hole, the tunnel I had been in opened up and I found myself standing at the top of a secret stairwell going all the way down the several stories of the old building. The steps were narrow and steep, winding in on themselves, and only bordered by a very crude railing that didn’t look at all stable. The entire space was no more than six feet square, at most, but obviously went down several dozen meters. I held my phone out over the well of the drop off and looked over the closest railing, but all I could see were more stairs below me. 

  
  


“Hey, Eggy,” I called back over my shoulder. “I get that you have a germ thing, but do you also have a claustrophobia thing? Because, if so, I don’t think you’re going to like this . . .”

  
**********

[ Love In The Afternoon by Streisand ](https://youtu.be/aFen3CJkZGE) . 

 

[ Henry Fitch Taylor's 'Cubist Still Life' ](https://digitalcommons.unl.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1018&context=sheldonpubs)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/28/18- Apologies to Henry Fitch Taylor for including him without warning in our fanfic, but I just couldn’t help it. Our Justin needs to be related to a real artist, don’t you think? This particular work is part of the collection of the University of Nebraska at Lincoln. We thought it fit perfectly in the boardroom of our fictional Pittsburgh building though, so please forgive us for the unaffiliated shoutout. Also, how about that hidden staircase, huh? What do you think’s at the bottom? And, will our OCD Brian be able to brave it? If so, how? Can’t wait to hear the speculation. TAG & Sally
> 
> PS, as of this chapter, we've met our NaNoWriMo2018 goal of 50k words in one month. Yay, us!


	12. Wish Lunch Could Last Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fun in the secret passage for our boys! Enjoy! TAG & Sally

 

Chapter 12 - Wish Lunch Could Last Forever.

  
  
  


“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty,” I shouted down the hole of the black-as-night stairwell. “Come on, Bill. Get your furry ass back here. William . . . I’m not kidding here. This is getting really annoying . . .”  

 

“Bill IS fucking annoying. That’s kind of his thing,” I could hear Brian muttering from outside the secret door and it made me smile - no matter what Brian said, he loved that damn cat. 

 

I’d been calling out for over five minutes by that point, with no luck, so my hopes that Bill would actually come when I called him were fading fast. Bill didn’t strike me as the kind of pussy who liked obeying orders. Especially not when there was a big, new, strange-smelling, secret stairwell to explore.

 

“Can you see him?” Brian called out. 

 

“No . . . not yet. But I don’t wanna go any further. I don’t know how safe these stairs are,” I yelled back, tapping my foot gently on the next step to test it out. 

 

“What’s it look like down there?”

 

I couldn’t really see much, other than the million cobwebs, the clumps of dirt, and the mounds of dust that littered the small confined space - but I wasn’t going to tell HIM about any of that. Just the thought of all that filth might send my OCD Man into some sort of panic. 

 

“Is it dark?” I rolled my eyes at his question. Of course it was dark, what did he expect? I was in a hole in the fucking wall. 

 

“Yeah, practically pitch black,” I called back. 

 

I thought about it for a second and figured maybe I could take a picture on my phone . . . of the stairway at least. I turned on the flash for the camera app on my phone and began taking pictures - it would help me get a better idea of what was down here too. There was only so much I could see with the light from my phone alone. 

 

“What the hell was that?” I could hear the worry in Brian’s voice as he must have seen the bright flashes of light when I took the photos. Oops, maybe I should have warned him about that. 

 

“Sorry, that was me taking pictures. I thought you might wanna see what’s down here,” I explained, coughing loudly in the process. 

 

The dust down here wasn’t doing my asthma or allergies any good. I could hear myself already starting to wheeze as if I’d smoked forty-a-day. I patted the pockets of my pants looking for my inhaler but quickly remembered it was in the pocket of my hoodie, which I’d thrown onto one of the chairs in the boardroom as I was looking at some of the other paintings on the wall. Fuck! I turned around and shuffled as quickly as I could back towards the staircase entrance. I tried to stay calm, because the moment I panicked my asthma would get worse, and I really didn’t want this to turn into a full blown attack. As soon as I got to the door I bent over to get through the narrow opening and felt myself tumble out onto the floor - a huge cloud of dust following closely behind. All I could see of my man was his shoes as he moved as far away from me as possible. 

 

“My . . .” the coughing continued as I tried to take in deep breaths of clean air. “My hoodie . . .” 

 

“Huh?” Brian asked, completely oblivious as to what I was asking for.

 

I vaguely pointed towards the chair with my discarded sweat shirt on it as I got up onto my knees, hunching over as I tried to breathe. Brian didn’t move - if anything he took a couple of steps backwards - as if in horror at the dusty, wheezing mess at his feet. I couldn’t do anything other than sit and huff, though. Maybe going down into that stupid stairwell to find the damned cat wasn’t such a good idea after all? Ya think?

 

“My in . . .” I began, gasping loudly, “my inhaler . . . for my asthma . . . it’s . . . in . . .” I pointed again at the article of clothing just a few meters away.

 

Brian hesitated, shifting back and forth on his feet, wringing his hands, and looking almost like a pro-boxer doing some bizarre warm-up exercises as he jogged in place. I felt my chest tightening. If I didn’t get to my inhaler soon I knew I would pass out. It had happened before - lots of times unfortunately - and that was not something I wanted to happen today. 

 

“Please?” I sounded pitiful as I begged for his help, but what the fuck, it’s how I felt. 

 

I could see Brian shuffling nervously, bouncing from foot to foot as he debated with himself about what to do. But I couldn’t wait any longer. I started to crawl towards the chair. 

 

“Stop!” He called out loudly. “Don’t move.” 

 

I watched as he ran towards the chair and, with shaking hands, he picked up my sweater. I watched intently as he searched for the pocket, easily locating my inhaler. His whole body seemed to be vibrating with unwanted adrenaline, but he held my inhaler tightly in his hand as he rushed towards me, holding it out for me. 

 

“Here, take it.”

 

I didn’t even think about what a huge deal this was for him, I was too busy dying from lack of oxygen. I snatched the inhaler from his hand and popped off the lid before taking a deep breath and spraying it down my throat. Then I did it again. After a few more puffs, I could feel my airways opening back up. Thank fuck and whoever invented Albuterol!

 

“Thanks,” I wheezed, my voice sounding croaky and my chest aching a little with each word I spoke. 

 

I turned to Brian and tried to give him my most reassuring smile. 

 

“All better now?” He asked. “You really scared me.” 

 

“You?”

 

He nodded and even through the bushiness of his beard I could see him biting nervously at his lip. “Yeah, I thought you were going to just stop breathing.”

 

I could see the genuine concern in his eyes, but I could also see him scratching wildly at his arms through his shirt sleeves. I got up from the floor and instantly realized I was filthy as fuck. I didn’t have to look down to see that, however, since I could tell just from the horrified look on Brian’s face. 

 

“I need to . . .” Brian hooked his thumb over his shoulder and bolted from the room. 

 

Seconds later I heard the shower running in his apartment and knew he was in there scrubbing himself clean. 

 

I didn’t know what to do next, I was covered from head to toe in dust and the last thing I wanted to do was traipse through his place and contaminate the whole building. If I did that, he’d probably NEVER leave his shower and, as appealing as the idea of my man all wet & soapy was, that didn't seem very productive. So I patiently stayed where I was until I heard the bathroom door opening back up about twenty minutes later. 

 

“Brian, where’s your vacuum?”

 

I heard him shuffling down the hallway and then saw him stop outside the dining room door, dressed in new clothes, and looking remarkably delicious with his wet hair all curled up from the shower. “It’s in the closet down the hall.”

 

“Grab it for me, will you?” I asked, “and I’ll clean this up.” I heard him sigh with relief as he walked off to retrieve the vacuum. Seconds later he stood hovering with it outside the room. “Leave it there, I’ll come get it.” As I took it from him, I made sure that our hands didn’t touch, but damn, I wanted to touch him. He smelled so clean and . . . yummy. It took me a moment to recognize the scent, but it was D&G’s ‘Light Blue’ and, fuck me, if that wasn’t already my favorite smell, it would be now. 

 

“Thanks,” I mumbled, managing to keep my lust-filled thoughts to myself, but only just barely.

 

I quickly vacuumed up the mess around me all the way to the wall. I made sure the door to the tunnel was pushed mostly closed but left it cracked open just enough that Bill could find his way back out. After I’d thoroughly vacuumed the carpet, I turned the hose on myself - why not, right? It was of course then that Brian decided to wander by. He stopped outside the door and looked at me like I was crazy. 

 

“What are you doing?” 

 

“I’m dusty . . .” I really didn’t know how else to answer that. 

 

He shook his head and continued to watch me suck the dust from my clothes as best I could. “This is quite possibly the weirdest shit I have ever seen,” he chuckled softly. 

 

“Well, I didn’t want to walk out and dirty your floor with my clothes,” I tried to explain; vacuuming my clothes didn’t seem so weird when I first thought about it, but now . . .

 

“Let me grab you something to change into,” Brian suggested - and although this was his idea, he sounded completely freaked out by it. 

 

“Thanks,” I yelled out at his retreating form. 

 

Moments later Brian returned and threw a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt my way. “They’ll be huge on you, seeing as you’re a midget.”

 

“A midget?” I scoffed. “I’m not THAT much shorter than you.”

 

“You keep telling yourself that, but you’re like a little oompa-loompa,” he laughed at his own joke and I couldn’t stop myself from joining in.

 

“I promise to wash them and bring them right back.”

 

“It’s okay,” Brian shook his head. “You can keep them.” 

 

And while I knew the reason Brian didn’t want the clothes back was because of ‘contamination’, I still loved the idea of taking these home with me and wearing them around the house. In a weird way it was like I was going to be taking a little of Brian back with me. Too bad they’d been recently washed and didn’t smell like that cologne.

 

With Brian still standing there looking at me, I started to get changed. I didn’t even think about whether I should be doing it or not; I just wanted out of those dirty clothes. I removed my long sleeved tee first, and the moment the material was over my head I could feel his stare burning into me. I looked up and found his eyes were glazed over as he took me in. Without thinking, I ran my fingers over my stomach and down towards the button of my pants, loving how sexy I felt standing there. 

 

“Do you want me to finish getting changed in the bathroom?” I asked, huskily. 

 

Brian licked his lips and shook his head, his body was now leaning heavily against the frame of the door. “No. Stay right where you are.” 

 

My fingers reached for the button of my pants and I snapped them open, sticking my hand inside and giving myself a little squeeze. I heard him groan loudly as I did it, feeling incredibly empowered by the way I was turning him on. I looped my thumbs into the top of my pants and tugged them down, leaving me standing there in just my tight, black boxer briefs. 

 

“You’re so fucking pale.” His eyes continued to travel up and down my body. “Like some kind of sexy vampire.”

 

“Well, the sun isn’t my friend,” I teased, loving the feel of him looking at me like this. I felt kind of slutty, but the good kind of slutty, you know? So I didn’t care. 

 

“I . . .” he struggled with his words but was determined to say what was on his mind. “I wish I could touch you.”

 

Hearing him say that made my heart feel as though it was being squeezed tightly. “I know . . . I wish you could too.” I didn’t want to make him feel guilty by saying that, but I needed him to know I wanted him just as much as he seemed to want me. 

 

I picked up the clean t-shirt he’d thrown at me. It was huge, just like he said it would be, and I could hear him laughing quietly from the doorway. Next, I pulled on the sweats. I ended up having to roll them up a couple of times at the waist so they weren’t dragging on the floor. 

 

“And you don’t think you’re a midget,” he teased. 

 

I fucking loved this; how we could switch so easily from one thing to another. It didn’t feel awkward or forced. It didn’t feel like we’d only met a week or so earlier. It felt natural. 

 

“Now, pick up your dirty shit and put them in this,” he said as he chucked a plastic bag my way. “We clearly have more research to do.”

 

Brian set me up on his laptop in the office - after supervising me while I used about two dozen of his wet wipes to clean as much of the dirt and dust off my hands and face as I could reach - and I set to work. I remembered some sites our Art & Architecture professor had recommended to us for finding blueprints on historic buildings, so I started there. Our building was a tricky one because it wasn’t important enough to be found on the major historical building indexes, but it was old enough that it wasn’t on the regular county sites. It took me a good forty-five minutes to track down the blueprints, with my Egbert hovering nervously in the background, but I was eventually able to pull something off the net. 

 

“These are useless,” Brian grumbled, leaning over my shoulder to look at the screen showing page one of the building plans. “They don’t show the damn secret passage at all.”

 

“Well, if they did, it wouldn’t be a SECRET passage, now would it?” I teased him as I scanned through the other pages to confirm that there was no hint of the hidden staircase on any of them. “It looks like that whole section of the building was supposed to be an empty ventilation shaft according to these. Which, by the way, was quite the innovation for 1885, when breathing was considered borderline extraneous. Hence the crappy air quality in the Pittsburgh area of the era.” I clicked through a few more pages and then decided to give up. “Sorry, Eggy, there’s nothing on here that’s going to help us.”

 

“But, then, how do I know where the fuck that damn staircase goes? All these years I had no idea that was even there. I don’t think Don knew either or he would have been bragging on it and making shit up about Prohibition speakeasies or some other crap. But . . .”

 

“What?” I asked. I could tell this was bothering my man more than it should by the way he was jittering and rubbing his hands together. “I mean, YOU might not have known it was there, but from the looks of the place it’s original to the building. Which means it’s been there all along without causing any problems. The stairs might be rotten, but I don’t see why the passage itself would cause any problems as long as the building is structurally sound.”

 

“It’s not that,” Brian insisted, biting at his gorgeous bottom lip and temporarily distracting me from what he was saying with fantasies of me doing the same thing. “. . . if it opens to the outside, anyone could come in. I’ll have to call in somebody to install locks or something and . . .”

 

“Whoa, there, cowboy,” I tried to derail the OCD train before it got too much steam behind it. “There’s no evidence that the passage even leads anywhere, Eggy. As far as we know, it’s just an internal staircase that goes down to the main floor. And nobody’s come in that way before, right, so why would you think people would all of a sudden start invading your tower now? I think you’re probably over-reacting.”

 

“I hate people telling me I’ve over-reacting,” my flustered fussbudget grumbled. 

 

“Sorry, Eggy. I didn’t mean anything by it,” I rushed to reassure him. “It’s just that - I promise you - I didn’t see any indications that anyone else had been in there anytime this century. Trust me on this. Nobody’s going to sneak up on you using THAT staircase.” 

 

However, he still didn’t look convinced, so I was forced to resort to the photographic evidence. I pulled a USB cable out of my messenger bag and hooked up my phone to the laptop, allowing me to upload all the pics I’d taken of the hole. I hesitated a couple of seconds, debating with myself whether or not showing my OCD beauty pictures of all the dirt living inside his walls was a good thing or not, but in the end I decided it was best to allay his current anxieties about an intruder right away and then deal with any unintended fallout from the expected dirt-pocalypse later. Just to be safe, though, I figured I needed to make sure OCD Man was seated and calm before I showed him the pics. 

 

“Come here, Big Guy,” I directed, hooking the closest unused armchair with my foot and dragging it over so he would have a place to plant himself. “Sit down.” He hesitated, which made me smile because, what did he think I was trying to do - get better access to his hot, hard bod so I could grope him against his will, or something? Not that the prospect wasn’t appealing, mind you. But I would save that for later. “Calm yourself. I just want to show you something.”

 

My big scaredy cat reluctantly complied, taking the seat but acting like he was expecting me to spring on him at any second - he’s so adorable sometimes, isn’t he? I ignored him for the moment and returned my attention to the computer, clicking around till I got the first photo opened. It was a lovely shot of the area leading down from the top landing of the stairway, showing a virtual wall of cobwebs across the path. 

 

“Now, don’t panic,” I warned him as I turned the computer screen so he could see it better. “I’m only showing these to you to prove that nobody’s been using that staircase to sneak into your building. See?” I clicked on the next photo, one showing a little ways further down the shaft of the staircase, which was even more coated with ancient, filthy, spiderwebs and uninterrupted dirt. “Trust me, no one has been up those stairs in the better part of a century. And that’s even assuming that the wood isn’t so rotten that they’d fall right through it. You’re perfectly safe from intruders coming in that way.”

 

I could feel the shudders of revulsion that rocked through him as I clicked through the rest of the photos. The struggle between his admitted OCD and what I suspected was a strong competing diagnosis of Agoraphobia, was real. My poor Eggy - so beautiful and yet so flawed - probably why I couldn’t stay away from him. I’d always been a sucker for the vulnerable type. And to find someone who was simultaneously vulnerable and also temperamentally dominant . . . well, let’s just say I was intrigued. But, getting back to the pictures we were reviewing, there was no denying the evidence which proved that no human had come through that muck in quite a while. 

 

“Okay. I . . . I see what you’re saying,” he conceded. “But, what if those stairs go someplace I don’t know about? Maybe the stairs themselves are safe - I see your point that, obviously, nobody has come up them in ages - but I’d feel better if I knew where the fuck they went. You know?”

 

“Well, not sure how we figure that out without accurate blueprints. I mean, if we could be sure it was safe, we could try following the stairs down, but I don’t know if I want to risk that unless we get someone in to look it over and make sure it’s okay. And, I take it from the fucking delicious way you’re crinkling your nose up at that suggestion, that you’re not in favor of that option. So . . .”

 

He didn’t bother to answer me other than to shake his head at the suggestion of bringing an outsider into his fortress of solitude. I didn’t have any other ideas, so I just sat there, waiting, and admiring the way he pulled at the hairs on his chin while he thought through the matter. I really needed to get a grip on myself, and control the lust response I kept having to this man before I made a total fool out of myself. But the view was just soooo nice, you know? 

 

“I think, maybe, there might be other paperwork about the building down in the basement. I . . . I don’t go down there much . . . I remember my Grandfather kept boxes of shit down there, though. Do you think there might be some blueprints down there that would help us?”

 

“I didn’t even know there was a basement to this place, actually,” I responded, returning to the plans I’d found online. “Huh. There it is. That’s interesting. Not a lot of older buildings have basements, I thought.”

 

“I think all the places in this area do,” he corrected me. “The original street level was lower than it is now, so all the buildings have a lower level that eventually got buried when they leveled the streets and repaved back in the early twentieth century. Which is one of the reasons I never go down there - there’s no exit or light or anything.”

 

“Well, it’s worth a try,” I suggested. “You wanna go on an adventure with me, Eggy? We can pretend we’re on a ‘Journey To The Center of The Earth’ or something. It’ll be a blast.”

  
********

[ Wish Lunch Could Last Forever by Jimmy Buffett ](https://youtu.be/KZw54in0eqw) . 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/10/18- Trying to write Brian for this story is a challenge. We want to show him with all his flaws but without losing his inherent Brian-ness. Please let us know how you think we’re doing. This Justin, on the other hand, is a blast to write - his voice just keeps coming through and practically writing his own lines. Go, Snarky Justin! It’s a fun and interesting combination, to say the least. Hope you readers are enjoying it! TAG & Sally


	13. I Don’t Wanna Go Down To The Basement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What will the boys discover in the basement . . . Read on and see! Enjoy! TAG & Sally

  
  


Chapter 13 - I Don’t Wanna Go Down To The Basement.

  
  


It took a little persuasion, but I eventually got Brian to agree to head down to the basement with me. 

 

I admit, I was actually curious to see what it was like down there. The flip side to a love of beautiful architecture is an insatiable desire to investigate the less beautiful underpinnings of the same buildings. Whatever it is that holds them up. The ‘bones’ of the building.

 

The bones aren’t usually as attractive as the outward face of a building, but you can tell a lot about an edifice by looking at the foundations. Is it just a pretty nothing, thrown up quickly, but without taking care to make sure it’s built to last? Did the builders use cheap materials and not really care how it was built? Is it thrown together in a muddle without any real, coherent planning? Or did they put real effort into the structure, with the clear intent of creating something that would last for a long, long time? It was those types of buildings - the ones designed with longevity and purpose - that turn out the most sexy, if you ask me. So, I was really hoping that MY building would be one of the latter sort. The kind of building whose very roots are sensual and strong and make you want to live inside them.

 

When I mentioned some of this stuff to Brian on our way down, I swear I could literally hear his eyes rolling into the back of his head. 

 

“What?” I asked, as I tried my best to sound offended. 

 

He laughed quietly to himself before he turned and spoke to me. “If Wikipedia was a person, it would look like you.”

 

I shrugged my shoulders. It wasn’t exactly a compliment, but I guess I do have a tendency to randomly spout off facts I have learned along the way. I’ve always done it though. It’s definitely something Daph gets great pleasure in teasing me about. The more I think about it, the more I was sure those two would get on - once my Eggy got past the whole agoraphobic thing. 

  
  


Right away, though, I was reassured by the bones of this building. Brian led me down to the main floor and unlocked a door to the old Pizza place that had occupied the western side of the building. I myself had never been in Monte Cello’s Pizza back when it was open but it looked like it was a fun little space and I wondered why it had closed. Brian ignored the empty restaurant, though, making his way into the small but adequate kitchen area and then unlocking another door hidden in the back that revealed a poorly lit stairwell leading down into the depths of the city’s underground. 

 

The walls here were plain, uncovered, red brick. The wooden risers of the steps were solid, looked like they were made of some old-growth wood, and had clearly held up well to the ravages of time. And even though we were in a basement passage, the builder hadn’t skimped on headroom so it didn’t feel too cramped. Yep, this was my kind of building - I could already tell.

 

It was a little less dingy and had fewer cobwebs than the staircase we’d found upstairs, but it wasn’t exactly clean and I could tell my OCD Buddy wasn’t nearly as sanguine about walking down those steps as he tried to pretend. I heard Brian take a deep breath as he pulled a wad of tissues from his pocket and used them to open the door to the basement itself. Once the door was open he shoved his hands back deeply into his pockets. The guy was a nervous wreck, his shoulders were practically touching his ears they were so tightly hunched. 

 

“Are you gonna be okay?” I asked worriedly. 

 

This was a big deal for poor Eggy and I could see from the way he was holding his body so tightly that he was feeling extremely anxious about the whole thing. As I waited for him to answer, I let out a small cough . . . the dust down here wasn’t even that bad, and I’d taken an allergy pill which should be kicking in soon, but my chest was still aggravated from my asthma attack upstairs. 

 

Brian ignored my question - another coping mechanism of his that I had noticed and stored away to discuss with Daphne later that night.

 

“Are YOU going to be okay?” He asked. “Maybe you should take a puff from your inhaler before we go any further.” 

 

He stood there watching me until I reached into my pocket and pulled out my asthma medication. His eyes were on me the whole time - even as I shook the damn thing - as though he was worried I wouldn’t do it right or something. Who knew what was going on in that beautiful brain of his. 

 

“All done.” I grinned as I waved my little blue pump in his face like the annoying brat that I was. “Now, you wanna lead the way?”

 

He thought about it for a moment and then nodded his head. 

 

The room was dark and I didn’t even think to check if there were any working lights down there, I just pulled out my phone and switched on my trusty flashlight app. Brian huffed at me with amusement and took a few steps over to the wall where he flipped a switch and turned on the lights for the whole basement. Okay, so here’s me feeling embarrassed that I was secretly hoping it would be all dark and scary and 19th Century romantic down here, and my Eggy would have to cling to me for comfort in the dark and all, only to find that, yes, we were still living in the 21st Century so of course there are lights. But whatever. I can fantasize about anything I want in my own mind, right? 

  
  


The basement was obviously unfinished. There was some rough framing put in to shore up the old brick foundations, and some steel support posts that seemed to have been added more recently, probably to bring it up to code. The floor was rough concrete. But, except for that and what looked like some high-end HVAC equipment, it was just another old, dank, dusty basement. At least it was cleaner than the hidden staircase, though, or my OCD Man would have been freaking out even more than he already was. 

 

“God, there’s so much shit down here,” Brian signed loudly as he took in the stacks of boxes and old furniture that filled most of the room. 

 

I wandered around a bit while Brian headed straight over to one particular set of stacks. I immediately saw that my assumptions were proved right - this building was built to last. The materials they’d used were of excellent quality and, even though they were over a hundred years old, seemed to have held up remarkably well. Good, solid brickwork. Large, old-growth timber beams in the ceiling. Yep, it definitely had good ‘bones’. 

 

Over near the eastern end of the foundations, I could see the outline of where an old door had been bricked up. There was a matching, bricked-in, window next to it. This must have been the ‘rear entrance’ back when the building was first erected. Judging by the fact that this door wasn’t all that elaborate, though, I figured that the big, main door on the floor above - on what was NOW the ground floor - must always have been intended to be the main entrance. This indicated to me that the land here might have originally been much more steeply sloped than it was these days - something that I remember my professor talking about in class, along with how large swaths of Pittsburgh had been flattened out to make the downtown area less hilly - a fact which comported with what Brian had told me earlier about how the street level had once been lower. And that also explained why there was a ‘Pittsburgh Toilet’ and a utility sink installed just to the left of the old door, so that workers and others coming in from the less than hospitable muck of Pittsburgh’s environs of the day could relieve themselves and clean up before going upstairs. Typical Pittsburgh construction, obviously.

 

As I wandered around, I noticed fairly quickly that even though there were lots of boxes down here, they all seemed to be neatly labelled, and at least cursorily organized, so hopefully it shouldn’t take us too long to find what we were looking for. I watched out of the corner of my eye as Brian kicked at one stack of boxes blocking his path, hoping that would be enough to move them and that he wouldn’t have to actually touch anything. Sadly that wasn’t the case. 

 

“Fuck,” he cursed loudly, the frustration etched so clearly and painfully on his face. 

 

“I can do it,” I suggested; I had planned on doing it all anyway as I really hadn’t expected Brian to touch anything down here in the first place. 

 

He huffed loudly. Silently resenting how much he was struggling. “No . . . it’s fine.”

 

I watched proudly as he used some clean tissues he’d pulled out from his never ending stash and used them to help him turn the boxes around until he could read what was on them. It didn’t take long to find a box marked ‘Building Repairs’.

 

“Ah ha. I think this might be what we’re looking for,” Brian announced as he lifted the box up with a slight grunt and brought it over to me.

 

I took pity on his tissue clad hands and tore the tape off the box myself. It was full to the brim with yellowing papers, but after only a couple of minutes of digging around, I found what we were looking for. There, in my hands, was another set of building plans - these much older and looking like they’d been hand drawn - this time including the secret staircase leading off the boardroom. 

 

“Look, look, we found it!” I grinned, waving the papers in Brian’s face.

 

Using his tissue hand protection, Brian took the yellowed old building plans out of my hands and laid them out over the top of a neighboring stack of boxes so he could examine them more closely. I looked on from the other side, which meant I was forced to read everything upside down, but that happened to be another of my wondrous talents, so it didn’t bother me. There on the plans you could clearly see the demarcation of the hidden staircase, marked ‘Private Stairs’ on the plans. It showed that the staircase did indeed go all the way from the top floor down to the basement, which at the time had been the ‘Ground Floor’. 

 

“Hmmm. If these plans are correct, then the staircase would open out somewhere over here . . .” I surmised, moving towards the westernmost apex of the building’s foundations to try and find the bottom of the missing stairs. “That’s odd. It seems like the basement ends here,” I said, patting the bricks of what looked like a solid wall, “but there should be at least another four or five meters of space down here. You’d expect the basement foundations to mirror the shape of the building up above, right? So, why is there a wall HERE? Why doesn’t the basement carry on to the end of the building’s western triangle point?”

 

“Beats me,” Brian sighed as he looked around the room as if mentally measuring it. “Hey, can we maybe go figure this shit out upstairs . . . I never really liked it down here.”

 

I could see how on edge the basement made Brian, and I wanted nothing more than to go straight back upstairs with him because, clearly, he had some unpleasant memories of this place. And that was what I was just about to do when something about the brick wall I had been standing against caught my eye. I’m not sure what it was exactly - but the bricks weren’t completely aligned and that was really grinding at my artistic mind. The craftsmanship of this building was incredible, so the shoddy brickwork stuck out - to me at least. Maybe to a normal human being it wouldn’t be noticeable at all. I simply couldn’t leave an anomaly like that be, however. 

 

“Yeah, sure. Why don’t you head on up . . . I’ll join you in a minute.” 

 

Poor Egbert didn’t move; he just folded his arms across his chest and let out a really loud sigh. “Why ‘in a minute’ and not right now?” he asked, undoubtedly frustrated with me and my shenanigans. 

 

I pointed to the odd brick wall. “I just wanna take a closer look at that.”

 

With my supervising angel watching over me, I began to feel along the length of the wall. I wasn’t sure what I thought I might find by doing that - it wasn’t as though I would come across something as crazy (and exciting) as a time portal that would suddenly whisk me away to another time period. Fuck, how crazy would that be? I laughed quietly to myself as I continued to press against the brickwork. You could clearly feel the demarcation line where the smoother, normal brickwork seemed to jut out a couple of extra centimeters. It wasn’t really that much, but it still didn’t make sense when everything else around us had been crafted so perfectly, with exact plumb lines maintained at all times. I let my fingers glide up and down this line of offset bricks as they zig-zagged upwards and confirmed that the break went all the way from floor to ceiling. One of the bricks, however, stood out even further than all the rest - this one at about chest height - making it possible to run my fingers all around the entire outline of the dark red building block. There was just something about this wall that didn’t make any sense.

 

I’m not sure what induced me to try and press on that one brick. Maybe it was just my inherent sense of order exerting its influence or something, but I felt like I needed to push that one out-of-alignment brick back into place, you know? It was wrong. It was messing up my whole building. You can’t have one offset brick maring the beautiful bones of an architectural wonder. It was obscene. 

 

So, I shoved at the brick with the palm of my hand and . . . It moved!

 

There was some initial resistance, of course, but I’d felt just the tiniest hint of movement so I pushed even harder and, to my astonishment, the entire brick slid inward creating a brick-shaped indentation in the wall. Intrigued, I just kept pushing it, further and further, thinking it would eventually stop when it hit a solid foundation or the surrounding dirt and rock that the building was supposedly built upon, but it didn’t stop. Apparently, there was just empty space behind that one brick, and it kept sliding further and further back until I heard an audible ‘click’. The sound surprised me and I let go of the brick, which popped back out a centimeter or two with another metallic click before stopping short of being flush with the other bricks. And, at the same time as the second click sounded off, that entire offset section of the wall shuddered and then started to swing away from me, leaving a gaping hole in the previously solid expanse. 

 

“Shit, Sunshine. Quit breaking my damn building, will you?” Brian complained as he hurried over to stand behind me so he could look at whatever I’d done now.

 

“I can’t seem to help myself. I’m a menace. You’d better stop me before I knock the whole place over,” I bemoaned my actions as I stepped back away from the dark entrance to whatever lay behind the fake wall. “This does explain why we couldn’t find the bottom of your hidden stairs, though. I’m assuming they open out onto whatever’s on the other side of this wall. But this room wasn’t on either set of blueprints.”

 

I could physically feel Brian shudder beside me as he looked into the deep, pitch dark hole. 

 

“I swear to God, if there are bats or ghosts or any of that shit living in there I’m gonna be pissed.” Brian muttered, glaring at the opening as if it where the Hellmouth itself. “You just HAD to go and find another mystery, didn’t you? As if one secret staircase wasn’t enough? You have to find a Pit of Despair in my fucking basement? It was bad enough as it was. I hate it down here. Always have. Always will. And now there’s this to add to it? Shit. Can we go back upstairs now? Please?”

 

“It’s not a Pit of Despair, Eggy, it’s just an unused room,” I tried to reassure him as I pushed the fake brick doorway a little wider, revealing even more darkness behind it. 

 

“Maybe not to you it isn’t. But it is for me.” He hesitated a moment, as if debating with himself whether or not to speak, but apparently deciding to continue. “I hate the dark almost as much as I hate the idea of germs. I . . . I used to dread being sent down here . . .”

 

The way he’d said ‘sent down here’ sounded so ominous, it even caused goosebumps to raise on my skin. “You mean as a kid? Why would anyone send you down here?” I asked, not sure where he was going with this. 

 

“Yeah . . . My gra . . . Don . . . he didn’t like it when I would get upset. Which, when I first came to live with him, happened a lot . . .” He cleared his throat and I could hear the sadness in his voice. “He used to make fun of me when I’d get sad and cry about my parents. He called me a ‘sissy boy’ and said he’d ‘give me something to cry about’. Then, if I didn’t stop, he’d shove me down here in the basement and tell me I could come up when I finally ‘grew some balls and stopped snivelling like a fucking baby’. So . . . yeah . . . I spent a fair share of my time down here. Of course, that’s before I had the lighting put in and all, so . . . Let’s just leave it at I just don’t like the dark. Or basements. Or dirt.”

 

Brian’s explanation tapered off, leaving me feeling lost and sad and so enraged at this long-dead, abusive grandfather that I felt like I was about to explode. How dare that old prick traumatize a poor kid - his own flesh and blood - like that. For what? Being sad that he’d lost his parents? That was fifteen ways of fucked. It did go a long way to explaining some of the reasons behind my Eggy’s many psychological hang ups, though. Shit, with a monster like Donal raising him, it was surprising he wasn’t even more fucked up than he seemed, to be honest. It also left me wanting more than anything to wrap him up in my arms and comfort him, which I couldn’t do for obvious reasons, and fuck Donal for that too. If I ever came across that old man’s ghost I would definitely have a few choice words for the fucker.

 

Thinking about taking out my ire on the man’s ghost, however, might have been a mistake. It seemed my wayward conjecture had conjured a ready apparition right out thin air when, a moment later, we both almost jumped out of our skins as a dull clattering sound emerged from out of the fathomless blackness we’d been staring into. I was momentarily frozen in place, not sure whether to just run or to try and reach in, grab the door, and pull it closed so as to barricade ourselves from whatever was coming for us. Meanwhile, Eggy had squeaked a tiny moan of protest - a fucking adorable sound, might I add, not that I would comment on that fact for fear of somehow challenging the poor thing’s manhood - and I could almost hear his bones chattering as he started to quake with trepidation. Of course, this had an invigorating effect on me, and I immediately realized I needed to quench my own sense of fear so I could be the rational one here.

 

Obviously, we were both overreacting. There was probably nothing to fear from whatever was back there. It was more the unknown and the surprise that had thrown me than anything. Logically, I knew there was no such thing as ghosts; there would no doubt be some completely reasonable explanation for whatever had made that noise, right? I just had to man up and face it and then reassure poor Egbert before he totally freaked out here. 

 

Before I could respond to my Eggy’s fears, though, the source of the noises coming from the room appeared, and I almost laughed at how ridiculous I had been acting a second before. 

 

It wasn’t a ghost, it was just a curious feline who’d apparently made his way through whatever secret passages he’d discovered and come out the other end to find his master. Poor Bill was covered in cobwebs and dust but looked thoroughly pleased with his adventures nonetheless. He sidled up to me, purring with happiness, and snaked his body around my ankles, leaving a contrail of cobwebs on the leg of my borrowed sweatpants in the process. It wasn’t till our dear William began to head towards Brian’s ankle that his person finally came to life and started to back away from the dirty kitty. 

 

“Oh no,” Brian wagged his finger at Bill and continued to back away. “If you think you’re coming ANYWHERE near me looking like THAT, you have another thing coming,” he scolded the poor cat, who, strangely seemed to sense his master’s distress and started purring away at him in kitty language like he was apologizing for his wrongdoings. 

 

“At least we finally found, Bill . . .” I offered, bending down to pick up the poor puss before he threatened Brian with another dirt attack.

 

Brian scoffed loudly and turned around, heading towards the exit of the basement. “First it was a freaking cat, now I’ve also got a resident brat, and they appear to be conspiring together to destroy my entire house. I can’t get rid of either of them. I’m starting to think I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed at all today,” he announced, stomping up the stairs and intentionally shutting off the light so as to leave me and my kitty burden alone in the darkness. “Well, are you two trouble makers coming, or what?” He yelled from halfway up the stairs. 

 

**********

  
  
[ I Don't Wanna Go Down To The Basement by The Ramones ](https://youtu.be/maS68s9jpYo) . 

 

[ Pittsburgh Toilet History ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pittsburgh_toilet) .   [ Pittsburgh's Hilly Streets ](https://www.pennlive.com/life/2016/10/steepest_streets_in_pittsburgh.html) . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story about the toilet is true, BTW - check out the link at the bottom of the chapter. Also, a fun fact I learned when I went to visit Pittsburgh before starting on the story, is that Pittsburgh claims to be the hilliest US city. They have several streets that have a steeper gradient even than the famous Lombard Street in San Francisco. And it’s true that much of the downtown area was flattened out to make it less hilly some time around the start of the 20th Century - which happened to be before motorized/mechanized bulldozers, mind you - resulting in several of the older buildings in downtown requiring the addition of new entrances, etc, when the street levels changed. The prime example of this is the Frick Building on Grant Street which, after the street was excavated and expanded, had to create a whole new front entrance in what was then the basement - something that’s clearly evident when you look at the building and see that the ground floor architecture doesn’t match the floors above. And now TAG’s history lesson is done. LOL. TAG & Sally


	14. Falling In Love At A Coffee Shop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Justin is determined to win his hermit over with coffee . . . Enjoy! TAG & Sally

  
  


Chapter 14 - Falling In Love At A Coffee Shop.

  
  


By the time we’d all made it back upstairs, firmly closed all the doors that might allow Bill the chance to wander again, and the cat had slunk off to finish his personal toilet so as to remove the remaining cobwebs and other dust that coated his fur, I figured it was probably time for me to leave. I’d caused more than enough havoc in the poor man’s life for one day and I could tell he was teetering on the edge of a real anxiety attack. Eating my lunch, in and of itself, would have been a major accomplishment for the man, but to also have to go through the stress of finding a hidden staircase in his conference room, a hidden room in his basement, and to have to deal with whatever emotions had bubbled up from the memories he shared about his grandfather . . . Well, even a well-adjusted person might be feeling a little worn out after all that. I could tell that my Eggy was ready for a little alone time. Far be it from me to outstay my welcome. Besides, I didn’t want him to accuse me of turning into a lesbian because I was ready to move in after our first ‘date’ or anything. 

 

So, I took my fine ass home like a good little boy with blue balls and spent the rest of the afternoon wanking off to memories of a wet Egbert just out of the shower. I was still wearing the T-shirt that he’d lent me and the thought that I was draped in his clothing helped fuel my wankfest. I loved how big it felt on me. I imagined that it was his arms around me instead and . . . yeah, did I mention I am a total degenerate and proud of it? 

 

Luckily I’d finally reached the limits of even my recuperative abilities, and moved on to drawing him instead of fantasizing about him, by the time my roommate made it home, because you know how annoying Daphne is when she catches me masturbating? She always tries to get me to keep going so she can watch. Talk about a buzzkill, right? She’s not nearly as excited by watching me draw. Or at least not usually, although that evening seemed to be the exception. 

 

“Wow, does he really look like this?” Daphne asked as she grabbed my sketchbook out of my hands and stared at the sketch in front of her. “He’s so . . . hairy.”

 

Trust Daph to state the most fucking obvious thing. “Yeah, he’s pretty . . . shaggy,” I laughed, thinking about the delicious cave man I’d left behind. “I kinda like it though. He’s so . . . rustic. Plus, it’s also fueling this recurrent fantasy I have about shaving him. Fuck, I can just see it.” I lick my lips at the delicious images I see all over again in my mind. “First I strip him down till there’s only skin, then I lather him up with one of those old-fashioned shaving brushes till he’s all soapy and wet, and then I have to get super close to him, straddling his lap, because I’m using a straight razor, which I scrape against his cheek ever so carefully . . .” I think I might have even moaned at that point because, hotness, amirite?

 

“Damn, boy! You have it even worse than I thought!” Daphne laughed at me, backhanding my shoulder to jolt me out of fantasy-shaving-land. “Leave it to you, Jus, to have some kind of weird hairy caveman kink.”

 

“I know, what can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

 

“Seriously though, Jus . . . his eyes here . . .” she gasped, continuing to look at my latest Eggy Masterpiece. “They’re really intense.”

 

I was impressed that she got that from my drawing - I mean, I know I’m good, but to be able to feel the emotion I sense when gazing into Brian’s eyes just from looking at my sketch was pretty damn impressive. Especially as she’s never met him. I must be a better artist than I thought.

 

“You should see them in real life though, Daph - they’re gorgeous. But you can definitely tell he’s hiding some pretty dark stuff in that head of his. He shared some grim stories about his childhood with me while I was there and if he has more of the same that he’s keeping to himself then I understand why those eyes are so haunted. It’s almost like you can see through the mask of pain he wears when you look into his eyes. I can’t explain the feeling I get when our eyes meet sometimes - I’ve never felt so . . . connected . . . to anyone else before,” I tried to explain, getting frustrated because the words were wholly inadequate to convey what I knew about this enigmatic man from deep in my soul. “Of course, that makes it all the more aggravating that I can’t actually touch him.”

 

“You’re doing the best you can, Jus. Give it time. It’s not like there’s an overnight cure for OCD or anything,” Daphne tried to console me. “How’d the lunch thing go, anyway?”

 

“He ate it.” I couldn’t help but feel proud when I said that. “And I could tell he really liked it too, so it’s all good.”

 

“Wow, Jus, that’s amazing. I mean REALLY amazing. You understand how big of a deal that was for him, right?”

 

I nodded. 

 

“How did he handle it?”

 

“I’m not gonna lie, it wasn’t easy. I let him do his . . . stuff . . . before I started cooking. There was a lot of cleaning.” We both laughed at that deliberate understatement. 

 

“That’s good - although I don’t think you should encourage any of his rituals if you can help it.”

 

“That’s gonna be tough, Daph. He’s so regimented in what he does.”

 

“Hey, I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. It’s not. It’s going to be fucking hard. But trust me, it’s what he needs. He needs you to show him that nothing bad will happen to him if he doesn’t do something that his brain is loudly telling him that he MUST do, you know?”

 

“Yeah. I just wish I understood what’s going on in that gorgeous, screwed up head of his,” I sighed. “It’s like . . . I don’t understand how he can sit there and stroke his cat, Bill, without even thinking about it. Yeah, he washes his hands like crazy afterwards, but he does it, you know? But he can’t touch me at all. Just the thought of it sends him into some kind of crazy panic. And yet, he’s told me that he wants to.”

 

“That’s the thing about OCD, though,” Daphne began to elaborate, getting that college lecturer tone to her voice that I recognized meant I was in for a long-winded explanation. “It’s a very personal condition. The compulsions are inherently illogical - that’s the nature of the disease - so you can’t really look at something a person with OCD does and say, ‘that doesn’t make sense’. They KNOW it doesn’t make sense. It’s not logical. The compulsions are a result of years of built up stress reactions and rituals that are organic to that one specific person. So, it’s really not out of the ordinary for your guy’s symptoms to be focused solely on human contamination rather than germs from his pet. And, if you’re right and there’s some type of childhood abuse mixed in there, it kinda makes sense that his compulsions are focused solely on HUMAN contact, right? This is his way of dealing with the fears he has about being hurt by a person, which is why he doesn’t want contact with people. He was never hurt by a cat, so he has no rituals - or at least fewer rituals - about that. Does that make sense?”

 

I bit my lip, it really did made perfect sense. Listening to Daph’s little lecture, I had one of those metaphorical lightbulb moments where it all just seemed to click. That little story Brian had told me about his grandfather locking him in the dirty basement, the hints he’d given about other abuse . . . Damn, Daphne was good, wasn’t she? It was like my poor Egbert had taken all that abuse he’d suffered and internalized it to the point he was now unable to leave his tower. It wasn’t germs he was afraid of; it was people in general. It all made a lot more sense now. 

 

“So, what you’re saying is that the handwashing and bottomless supplies of wet wipes aren’t really about the germs at all. They’re more a way for him to deal with other stress. Which totally makes sense. But, then, how the fuck will I ever get through to him? I mean, making him eat the lunch I prepare doesn’t exactly count as psychotherapy, which is what he needs if I’m hearing you right.”

 

“If what you’ve told me is true, I don’t doubt he could use some serious therapy, but until he can leave the building, that’s not gonna happen. Besides, that’s not what he needs from YOU. You just need to keep doing what you’re doing. Keep encouraging him to push his boundaries. Make him WANT to push. Which, if he’s as smitten with you as you obviously are with him, shouldn’t be too hard,” she teased me, and to my horror, I found myself blushing at the memory of just how much I truly was ‘smitten’ with my Egbert. 

 

“Okay, so what’s next then? Do I move on to dinner? Then what?”

 

“That’s a start, but if you really want my advice, I say, be bold - give him a real incentive to want to make changes. Just don’t do anything to surprise him,” she suggested. When my confused expression clearly betrayed the fact that I didn’t understand what she meant, however, she continued to explain. “Tell him you’re going to hold his hand - don’t just do it - and use that to show him that nothing will harm him because of you doing that type of thing. You know, talk him through the process. Because that’s part of the compulsion thing; he already knows his rituals are irrational, but he’s so caught up in the compulsion that he can’t help himself. And even though the ritual may bring some relief from the worry, the obsession still returns and then cycle repeats over and over. So you have to break the cycle. You have to PROVE to him that nothing bad will happen when, for instance, you touch him. There will definitely be a bit of panic when you try it, too, so you’re going to have to roll with it. Even if he tries to pull away, don’t let go. Don’t freak out. Show him you’re there for him. And be prepared to do the same thing over and over several times before it finally gets through to him - it’s exposure over time that will truly break the cycle, not just a one time thing and he’ll be ‘cured’. Right?”

 

I nodded. God, this was gonna be tough, but I was prepared to do it. Prepared to free my Eggy from himself. If I didn’t, then all those fantasies I’d just spent the last few hours envisioning, would only exist in my head, and that would be a real shame. 

 

“You don’t think that holding his hand is a little too advanced?” I asked, just to be sure. “Not that I wouldn’t love to push things a little, but he was struggling today with just the lunch thing. Not to mention the fact that I broke his house - twice - and introduced his cat to the joys of cobwebs . . .” 

 

I proceeded to tell Daphne all about our secret passage adventures that afternoon, which took up the rest of our time talking before she had to run to get to her cell bio practicum. Daph was almost as enamored of the romantic idea of a secret passage as she seemed to be with the idea of my Egbert by the time she left. She was all for coming with me next time I went to visit Eggy so that she could help investigate, but I figured that might be too much for my boy at this point. Plus, I really didn’t want to share just yet. I know it’s selfish, but I sorta liked knowing I had my hermit in his tower all to myself. So I told her that we’d work on it for later, and left it at that - although in my mind I was thinking, much, much later, like, maybe next summer later even. Of course, it might just take me that long to get past all Brian’s neuroses, so that’s not saying much, I suppose. But just thinking about trying for more, the way Daphne had suggested, gave me hope. I always had been a sucker for a slow burn romance, because what fun was it if the guy you were pursuing wasn’t at least a little bit of a challenge?

 

I spent the rest of the evening after Daph left for class daydreaming up other ways to push my Eggy forward.

  
  


“Good morning!” I sang out as I came through the door to Eggy’s office the next day, my usual latte in one hand and a Cafe Viennois I’d brought to tempt my hermit in the other. “Who’s ready to play Corporate Executive and the Naughty Coffee Boy?”

 

“Couldn’t you at least pretend to respect my privacy by, say, knocking on the door before you break in?” the annoyed hermit grumbled, turning around in his desk chair to glare at me despite the half-smile I could see he was trying to hide.

 

“What fun would that be?” I plopped the cup of coffee down on the edge of his desk and took up a seat in the nearby armchair. 

 

“I don’t have time for fun. I still have to finish the project I was working on yesterday afternoon when you forced me to eat lunch with you and then traipse all over finding secret passages and collecting dust bunnies,” he complained, as if I didn’t see right through his feeble protests. “You wouldn’t believe how nasty Bill was afterward. It took him two hours to finish grooming himself and then he coughed up the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life into my slipper. So now I have to buy new slippers too.”

 

I chose to ignore the reference to furballs and focus on the primary goal here - coffee. “Come on. It’s 10 o’clock. That’s the universally recognized time for your first coffee break of the day. Nobody expects you to work at 10 o’clock in the morning.” I pointed to the cup waiting not far from his elbow. “I brought you something extra special today, too. Cafe Viennois. All the caffeine of espresso with the sweetness of whipped cream to boot. I thought it would suit you.”

 

“What are you babbling about now?”

 

“Come on, it’s just like you. All the bitterness countered by the sweet yumminess. You don’t see the parallel?” I teased, smiling into my own cup to hide my amusement. 

 

When my Eggy started to pull a wet wipe out of the package waiting in one of the cubby holes on the desk, I decided now was as good a time to implement Daphne’s Exposure Therapy thing as any so I coughed loudly enough to get his attention. Brian looked up at me, a little curious and a little anxious. I had to give myself a little mental shove because I knew what I was going to ask would be difficult and I didn’t know how he’d take it. Would he think I was out of line for interfering? Would he be offended. Would he be embarrassed? Would he tell me to get my nose out of his business and throw me out for good? I had no idea, but I did know that if I ever wanted a chance to find out where this whatever-it-was between us might go, I had to start somewhere. So this was me being all fucking brave and shit.

 

“You know,” I held up my hand to stop him from the wet-wiping. “My med-school friend, Daphne, was telling me about this thing called Exposure and Response Prevention Therapy for OCD. She says it’s pretty effective. You just have to try and do shit that would normally cause you anxiety, over and over again, while stopping yourself from reacting with one of your rituals. The theory is that, once you see that nothing bad is going to happen when you do the thing you’re freaked out about, you won’t need the ritual.”

 

“Yeah, I know what it is. I’ve read about it,” Egbert answered warily. “I just don’t think I could . . .”

 

“Bullshit. You can do anything you want, especially with me here to help you,” I countered. “And it doesn’t have to be anything big. At least not at first, right? You could just hold the cup today, you know, without wiping it off first. Maybe?” 

 

He looked at me as if I was fucking insane. I was tempted to laugh, but I knew that would probably insult him. Instead I just smiled and pushed the coffee cup a little bit closer to him.

 

“Come on, Eggy. I know you’re not ready to actually drink it yet, but you want to take a sniff, don’t you?” I tempted. “I swear that nothing bad will happen if you just pick up the cup without wiping it down.”

 

Brian reached for the cup but quickly pulled his hand back. “I don’t know . . .”

 

“Come on. I KNOW you can do this,” I said encouragingly. “Look at what you did yesterday; you never thought you’d be able to eat my lunch, did you?”

 

He shook his head. 

 

“But you did it and I’m so fucking proud of you.”

 

Brian smirked as I said that but it didn’t take long before it turned into a genuine smile. Which made me realise that nobody had probably ever said those words to him before and that made my heart hurt. 

 

“That was different though . . .”

 

“Yeah, it was different, but you still did it. Tell me you see how awesome you were yesterday.”

 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he chuckled shyly. 

 

“Maybe YOU don’t think so, but I do. So, go on, Eggy, pick that cup up. Give it a sniff. Your nostrils will thank you - trust me - that drink smells fucking amazing.”

 

Brian’s hand tentatively moved forward again but then just hovered a few centimeters away from the damn cup. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head and hear the arguments he was having with himself. I had to restrain myself from reaching over and just taking the cup and shoving it into his hands. For someone who didn’t have the same obstacles, it seemed like such a simple thing - just holding a fucking cup - but I could tell how hard he was struggling. Hell, there was even a drop of sweat on his temple, that’s how hard he was thinking this thing through. But at some point I could see that he just mentally told himself ‘fuck it’ and after that the struggle was over. He grabbed hold of that damn cup with a heavy sigh and lifted it up close enough to take a good long inhale of the bitter-sweet aroma. 

 

“That’s my boy!” I teased, hoping to deflect a bit from the seriousness of the moment with a little humor. “I’m going to turn you into a coffee connoisseur in no time.”

 

He shot me a killer glare for making fun of him, but I could tell the bravado was only skin deep. Those incredibly expressive hazel eyes were showing the first signs of true panic and the hand holding the cup started to shake just the tiniest bit. Shit. I didn’t want this first attempt to go badly. I couldn’t let him fail. But what could I do? All I could think of was to distract him before his freak out had a chance to take over. 

 

“So, after I left here yesterday I spent the whole night jerking off to thoughts of you,” I spat out, shocking us both I think, with my brazenness.

 

Brian’s head shot up and his eyes bore into mine with a fierce intensity that made me feel weak at the knees. “Huh?”  

 

“It’s true. I have these recurrent fantasies about you, Eggy. You wouldn’t believe what my lecherous brain comes up with sometimes. But it’s your fault, you know? You just had to go take a shower yesterday and then come out looking all delicious and wet and smelling so damn appetizing. I have this thing for wet men. Someday, if you’re a good boy, I’ll show you what I mean.”

 

“You are a complete freak. You know that, right?”

 

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” I replied, licking my lips as I recalled some of the ideas my fevered brain had come up with regarding this delectable morsel of yummy manliness. “I want to soap you all up - head to toe - and then run my hands all over your body. And then I want to shave off that bush on your chin that you’re hiding behind so I can better kiss your luscious lips.”

 

“You don’t like my beard?” he asked, sounding kinda hurt, and totally missing the point of the whole wet ‘n’ wild fantasy, I thought.

 

“It’s not that I don’t like it, but you have to admit there’s something erotic in the idea of me shaving it off you.” I almost moaned at the very thought - okay, maybe I did moan out loud - but you couldn’t blame me what with that image flooding my brain.

 

“Did I mention you are a freak?”

 

“Maybe. But, did you notice that you’ve totally forgotten about the cup in your hands while I was detailing my wicked little shaving fantasies?” I pointed out with a smug little grin. “See, I told you you’d be fine. More than fine, if that bulge in your pants is any indication.”

 

We both directed our attention to his crotch, which was sporting a rather impressive bulge - one which matched the bulge in my own pants right at that moment - and then we both broke out chuckling. We might be totally pathetic, engaging in this seduction of words when we couldn’t actually touch, but at least we were pathetic together. Plus, my distraction techniques had worked like a charm. Eggy’s first brush with ERT was a total success and we were both horny as rhinos. I’d take that as a win, wouldn’t you? And I couldn’t get over how proud I was of my Eggy right then. I wanted to tell him that, but I also didn’t want to make a huge deal about it either. 

 

Meanwhile, Brian smirked at me and shook his head, but he didn’t immediately put down the cup either, so, bonus. “Don’t you have something better to do than torture me with your puerile delusions and your strange coffee fetish?” he asked.

 

“Nope. All done with finals and, except for picking up a few shifts at this diner where I sometimes work for spare cash, I’ve got nothing to do till school starts up again in January. So, lucky you, you get me all to yourself.” I smirked at him with my brattiest grin, eventually coaxing him into a shy return smile. “Which also gives me more time to work on figuring out the great Triangle Building Mystery,” I announced, pulling out my phone so I could show him what I’d discovered. “And lookee what I found!”

 

I twisted the small screen around so Brian could see the picture I’d located online of one William J. Carnegie. See, I’d been so taken with that photograph I’d seen the day before in the old boardroom, that I’d snapped a quick pic of it. Then, that morning while I was lying in bed thinking back over the day before, I’d remembered it and decided to do a google image search to see what else I could find on our dear, sweet William. It turned out there was quite a lot, too. 

 

My google search had confirmed that the man in the photo was indeed William Carnegie. The handsome youth even had his own Wikipedia page, imagine that. William was the eldest son of Thomas Carnegie, the less well known brother of the famous Andrew Carnegie. Back in the post-Civil War period, Thomas had been almost as much of a big shot as Andrew. Thomas founded the Union Iron Mills, which turned into the Iron City Forge, then into the Edgar Thomson Steel Works, which eventually became a subsidiary of U.S. Steel, the industry giant that provided the majority of the nation’s steel for almost a century. Thomas, who was never as outgoing or social as his older brother, was instead a real family man. Thomas and his wife, Lucy Coleman, had nine children before he succumbed to pneumonia in 1886 at the relatively young age of 43. Many of Thomas’ children went on to become movers and shakers among the burgeoning capitalist elite of the late 19th & early 20th centuries. William, however, despite being the eldest, never actually amounted to much, and generally fell out of the public light around the time of his father's death. William’s obituary, years later, said only that he was ‘a sportsman and traveler who did not marry’. 

 

I tried to wait patiently, holding up the phone and scrolling down for him while Brian read through the Wikipedia page, but before he’d reached the end my enthusiasm got the better of me. “See what it says there? That William Carnegie was ‘a sportsman and traveler who did not marry’? Doesn’t that strike you as odd? I mean, back in those days, the oldest son would have been expected to marry and follow dad into the family business, right? But not our William. Instead, he spent his life as a pretty little playboy, who apparently had no interest in women. That, and the photo of him in your boardroom showing a rather effeminate young man - which, coming from ME, a guy who’s not exactly what you’d call butch, has got to tell you something - made me think that maybe young William might have been batting for OUR team. What do you think?”

 

Brian shrugged, waggled his head side to side as if weighing the possibility, looked at the photo of William again, and then nodded. “Yeah, he was definitely too pretty to be straight.”

 

“Exactly! And that got me thinking about another gentleman of the same time period who also never married, lived with his male ‘business partner’ for several years, and then constructed a huge building that he secretly dedicated to his lover ‘B’,” I continued, laying out my suppositions one at a time in a logical progression. “B as in, maybe, ‘Bill’, which is the most common nickname for someone named William . . . ?”

 

“Peebles? I know you said before you thought he might be gay, but we don’t know that for sure,” Brian replied, trying to dampen my wild speculation. “And, even if we did, we don’t even know if him and this William . . .”

 

“Billy,” I interjected.

 

“. . . Billy . . . knew each other. I mean, except for that picture in the other room, there’s no connection. Peebles’ love interest could be anyone.”

 

“I know. I just thought it made sense since they were both odd ducks in a time when pretty much every other man was expected to marry, you know?” I gave in because I had no proof, only this gut feeling. “But, whatever. It was just an idea.”

 

“You are a fucking romantic twat, aren’t you?” Eggy accused me, setting down his untasted but well-smelled cup of coffee and smiling at me. 

 

“Maybe,” I admitted. “But, if nothing else, my romantic day-dreamings seem to have distracted you long enough to get you through your first exposure therapy session.” I pointed to the cup and grinned at him smugly with an impish waggle of my eyebrows. “So at least the Tale of our Peebles and his Billy seems to have brought about some good. Right?”

 

Brian huffed a little deprecatory laugh, smiled at me, and then immediately got up and ran down the hall where, a minute later, I could hear the water running in the sink of his room where he was probably scrubbing his hands raw. 

 

“Oh well. It’s a start,” I told myself and got up to follow my crazy hermit man.

**********  
  


[ Falling In Love At A Coffee Shop ](https://youtu.be/erywPdFfORE) . 

[ Thomas Carnegie History ](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_M._Carnegie) . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/20/18 - There really was a William Carnegie, btw, and his obituary did say he was ‘a sportsman and traveler who did not marry’, so can you blame us for assuming that meant he was gay and inserting him into our story? Apologies to the memory of the real William if this offends. It’s fiction, after all, but that description just makes you think, right? A link to where we found that quote is at the end the chapter.


	15. My Secret Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We know it was a long wait, but we think you'll like this chapter. Sooooo much happening here. Enjoy! TAG & Sally

  
  


Chapter 15 - My Secret Place.

  
  


I eventually caught up with my crazy hermit man back in his rooms as he finished up with his hand washing ritual. Like I said before, making him hold the cup without wiping it down first was only a start. There was still a lot more to do, but I had to remember not to push too hard. The key was to make him WANT to have more. In the meantime, maybe more distraction would help?

 

“So, I was wondering about your secret staircase and that hidden room,” I ventured, grabbing for the first topic I could think of.

 

“Of course you were,” Brian sighed loudly. 

 

“Hey, I’m a curious guy. And don’t pretend you don’t like me better because of it.”

 

“Curious . . . Bratty . . . Same thing, right?” I could tell Brian was teasing, even though he rolled his eyes dramatically. 

 

I smiled brightly. I don’t know why I enjoyed it so much when he teased me like this. It was kind of pathetic really, but I loved seeing what I considered the ‘real’ Brian - the one that wasn’t so constrained and worried all the time. That Brian was a huge turn on. 

 

“Some might say there are similarities, yes,” I conceded.

 

“So, what exactly were you thinking about my basement? Or do I not want to know?” I could see Brian shivering a little as he mentioned the basement - he certainly did have issues with it - probably because it was a dark, dirty hole full of bad memories. 

 

“It just seems really strange to me - placing a random staircase leading from the boardroom to the basement and then hiding it behind a fake wall like that? There HAD to be a reason for it, you know? Otherwise what a waste of fucking time and effort. I mean, why would you need to move from the top floor to the basement without anyone knowing about it? And what’s with that little secret room?” So much was running through my mind at this point that I knew I was probably waffling. 

 

“I honestly can’t tell if you’re talking to me or just talking to yourself . . .”

 

I ignored his comment and went on. “Don’t you want to know what’s in that room?” I prodded him.

 

“Justin . . .”

 

“Come on. Tell me you’re not at least the tiniest bit curious?”

 

“I’m really not,” he insisted, pretending to concentrate on scrubbing at the countertop with the scratchy side of a sponge. “I try not to think about the fucking basement at all, if you want to know the truth.”

 

“Seriously? I mean, there’s a mysterious hidden room in your building and you don’t care? I can’t believe you, Eggy! If this were my home, I’d have been poking my nose into that place, trying to discover all its secrets, immediately. It’s every kid’s fantasy - to find a secret room that nobody but you can get into. How can you resist the lure of that?”

 

Brian dropped his sponge and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Not every kid’s fantasy . . .”

 

I instantly felt like a shit for mentioning the basement, especially knowing how traumatising a place it was for him as a kid . . . but, was he still not the tiniest bit curious? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But I just thought you might be wondering what it’s all about too . . .”

 

“Well, I don’t.”

 

“Not even a little bit? Really?”

 

“You’re  _ really _ pushing all my fucking buttons, Justin. You know that right?” he accused.

 

“I know. That’s why you love me, though, right? It’s sort of my whole raison d’etre. You are the elusive, enigmatic recluse, and I’m the bratty, brazen wolf whose sole purpose is to draw you out of yourself. At least that’s the way we’d be written if this were some trashy romance novel.”  

 

“I’m not enigmatic,” my hermit insisted, apparently a little miffed to have been compared to a romance novel character, imagine that.

 

“Okay, okay. I get it. I’m sorry. You’re not enigmatic,” I relented with a teasing smile. “But you do have a secret room in your basement and I’m still a brat, so I thought I might go and have a look around . . . if that’s alright with you?”

 

Brian pulled his hands from his pockets and slammed them down loudly on the counter in front of him. “Damnit, Justin.”

 

“I’ll go on my own. And if it makes you feel any better, I won’t tell you anything . . .” I kind of knew that wouldn’t work, but I wasn’t sure what else I could say. 

 

“You’re not fucking going down there on your own.”

 

“Why not?” I folded my arms defensively in front of me. 

 

“Because I said so.”

 

I felt my tongue move to the inside of my cheek - something I did when I really wanted to say something but knew I shouldn’t as it would get me into trouble. 

 

“Well, I’m going whether you like it or not . . .” Whoops, too late, I said it anyway. 

 

Brian turned back around to face me, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth. I could hear him breathing loudly as he continued to stare at me. You could almost hear the cogs and wheels inside his brain spinning as he fought with himself. I knew there had to be some part of him that was just as curious as I was, even if the OCD part of him was appalled by another visit to the depths. For a few moments, I wasn’t sure which side would win. I caught myself holding my breath as I waited, internally cheering him on, hoping that my man would take the challenge, engage his inner child, and come exploring with me. 

 

“You’re a pain in my ass, Justin,” my brave and angst-ridden hermit declared before storming out of the room and through the door of his apartment. “Well, are you coming or not?” I heard him yell as he started down the stairs. 

 

I jogged after him, overjoyed to have once more pushed Eggy to push his own limits. I was getting pretty good at this ERT stuff. Maybe I’d missed my calling - forget being an artist, I should go to med school with Daphne. Or not. Because I really didn’t care about curing the great unwashed masses. If I could cure Brian, enough so we could live out one or two of my naughty fantasies, that would probably do me. 

 

“Have I told you how sexy you are when you go all butch brave like this?” I asked when I finally caught up to my man halfway down the stairs. I saw the tips of his ears and the back of his neck redden slightly at my comment, but he just scoffed in response. “So, got any theories on the mystery room?”

 

“No idea. If the place had been built fifty years later, during prohibition, I would have guessed it was an escape route or back entrance of some sort. Don’t know that they had the Mob back in the 1880s though. So, no idea.” Brian unlocked the door to the pizza place and I followed him through the empty space then down the basement stairs. “Maybe Peebles needed a dungeon? I don’t know.”

 

“I had no idea the S&M scene was a thing back then,” I joked, earning myself a chuckle from my man. “But, hey, whatever rocks your world, right?”

 

“Great, that’s all I need - a secret, haunted, bondage chamber in my fucking basement.”

 

“Actually, haunted bondage sounds pretty hot to me. Did you ever see that movie, ‘Ghost’? I mean, I could really get into being tortured by that guy, you know?”

 

“You’re probably just all turned on by the pottery aspect of it - you are an art student after all,” he laughed at his own joke as he turned on the basement lights and proceeded me into the dimness. 

 

“Well, yeah. But what’s not sexy about wet clay and a man with big hands,” I replied. “I do have that thing for wet men, remember?”

 

“How could I forget,” Brian mumbled, surreptitiously adjusting his pants as he led me through the cluttered basement towards the false wall at the western end of the room. “Here we are . . . do your thing,” he said, as he stepped back from the secret door and rubbed his hands together nervously. 

 

“Don’t mind if I do.” 

 

I reached out, trailing my fingers over the uneven bricks till I found the one that operated the secret latch, and pressed it inward. There was the same audible click, and the whole section of the wall swung open, just like before. I was still fascinated by the experience, thinking how much work must have been put in to devise a secret door like this - especially back in the day when door hardware was still not mass produced. Whatever Peebles, or whomever had built this space, was trying to hide, it had to have been important to go to all this trouble. Which only made the secret that much more tantalizing. 

 

Even with the door pushed wide open, you couldn’t really see very far into the darkness of the windowless room beyond. I had been prepared for this, though, and pulled out a small but powerful flashlight from my back pocket. A quick twist of the handle and the light shone froth, illuminating Egbert’s Basement Hideaway.

 

I’m not sure what I expected to find when I finally stepped inside. I guess I just assumed it would be like the rest of the basement - mostly bare walls with the brickwork showing through the wooden framing, a bare concrete floor, the joists of the floor above for a ceiling. So no wonder I was surprised by what I actually found.

 

The room behind that secret door resembled Brian’s upstairs office more than anything. It was fully finished, the walls and ceiling plastered and painted, an oak plank floor laid over the concrete substrata, and filled with dusty but elegant furniture. I noted a comfortable looking leather arm chair, a rocker and, up against the near wall, an old-fashioned fainting couch upholstered in a heavy red brocade fabric. On the far wall there was an old-fashioned coal stove which would have provided adequate heat for the occupants of the small space once upon a time. There was a thick oriental rug carpeting the center area where the chairs were set up for a cozy tete-a-tet. There were even gas lighting fixtures on the walls so the room would have been well lit. Of course everything was dirty and there appeared to have been some water damage in one corner where the plaster was sagging and the flooring appeared damaged, but overall, it was a very nice little retreat. 

  
  


“Wow! Look at this,” I exclaimed as I walked further into the little room to examine things more closely. “Not bad for a secret lair. A good dusting, maybe a paint job, and you’ll have yourself a nice hideout here, Eggy.”

 

As I turned around to face Brian, I noticed his eyes were firmly shut and his fists were clenched tightly at his sides, as though he was afraid of what we might find. 

 

“Open your eyes, Egbert,” I urged. “This place is amazing.”

 

It took him a minute or two to open his eyes, but once he did he then followed me in. I could tell the place freaked him out as he was being extra careful not to touch anything. I, on the other hand, was already eagerly leafing through one of the ancient books I’d found on the small bookcase. Everything was a bit musty but none of the books seemed too damaged. They all appeared to be first editions or at least good copies of fairly well-known works, and were all over a hundred years old; these books would bring a pretty penny if Eggy decided to sell them. Talk about buried treasure!

 

“So, what do you think?” I asked excitedly. 

 

Brian was now standing beside me and, as I looked at him, I noticed he was holding his breath. 

 

“Hey, you're okay,” I soothed, as I tried giving him my most reassuring smile. “Breathe.”

 

Slowly Brian exhaled and I could see his shoulders relax slightly from where he’d been standing so stiffly. “I can’t believe this . . . I had no idea there was an entire extra room back here.”

 

I nodded. “That’s kinda what makes it ‘secret’,” I laughed, thinking about how stupid we must look standing here with our mouths wide open as we took in this small space. 

 

Brian followed me as I took another tour around the room, staying as close behind me as he could without actually touching me, and looking over my shoulder as I used my flashlight to illuminate the various objects in the room. When we came to the apex of the building’s foundations - the short wall that corresponded with the westernmost point of the triangular lot - my flashlight lit up yet another surprise. 

 

There was narrow, darkly-varnished, door in that wall.

 

While the door itself wasn’t anything out of the ordinary - just a regular old wooden door with five inset panels and a vintage brass doorknob - I definitely had not expected to find a door that exited out of this basement room through the foundations. There shouldn’t be anything on the other side of this wall except for the ground that underlay the intersection of Liberty and Seventh Avenues above, right? So, why would there be a door?

  
  
  


“What the hell is this?” Brian asked as he did a double take - looking from me to the door and back again several times before shivering almost violently. 

 

“Yeah . . .” I smiled to reassure him, impressed at how well my OCD man was handling this newest surprise despite the initial shock. “Looks like we still have some more adventuring to do, huh?”

 

“Uh . . .” The uncertainty was starting to kick in, but at least he was still there, so I decided to just go for it.

 

I reached for the knob, thoroughly expecting that it would be too rusted to operate or that it would be locked, only to discover that the handle turned easily. I looked over my shoulder to find poor Eggy sorta cringing as he watched my every move. He didn’t look like he knew how to react or what to do, but at least he didn’t say anything to stop me, so I just renewed my grip on the old brass doorknob and yanked it open, creating an explosion of dust and stale air. 

 

“What the hell?” we said at the same time, before we were both taken over by insane coughing fits. 

 

I waved my hands in the air to waft away the worst of the dirt drifting through the opening, not that it did much good because by that point I was pretty much covered head to toe in grime . . . so much for dressing up and trying to look pretty for my Eggy, I guess. I quickly covered my face with the sleeve of my hoodie and discreetly wiped at my nose - something I knew would likely set Eggy off. When the worst of the dust finally cleared, though, the beam of my flashlight shone through the particulate haze, not onto the solid ground you’d expect to find under a normal city, but instead on a long, empty tunnel stretching away into the darkness. 

 

From what little I could see, the walls of this tunnel were old brick that had, at one time, been plastered over. The floor was just hard-packed dirt with piles of fallen bricks and plaster littered over the surface as far as I could see. There was some old, rusted piping running down the right-hand wall, which had come out of the bracketing that had originally held it in place and which didn’t seem to have been used in decades. Off in the distance I could see a faint gleam of bluish light where the weak December sun had apparently filtered down through a skylight of some type - probably one of those glass brick sections you sometimes find in the downtown sidewalks which always make you wonder what it is that’s being lit up below. Other than that one patch of light, though, the rest of the tunnel was pitch black. Wherever it led and what was at the other end was a total mystery. 

  
  


“Damn, Eggy, when it comes to secret passages, you really go all out, dontcha?” 

 

When I didn’t hear any response from the man I thought was standing behind me, I turned around, only to find my companion practically hyperventilating as he swiped with one of his ubiquitous wet wipes at the dust that had accreted on his face. 

 

“I . . . I need . . . I need to get out of here,” Brian gasped as he shuffled backwards, stumbling into things as he tried to escape as fast as he could. 

 

“Brian . . .” I instinctively reached out to try and stop him from falling over or hurting himself - which if he continued walking backwards the way he was, was sure to happen - not even really thinking about what I was doing. 

 

“Don’t . . . just don’t touch me . . . please,” he begged, sounding panicky.

 

I retracted my hand immediately, feeling uber-bad for having caused him even more stress in an already dicey situation, but the poor guy was too far gone by that point for it to do any good. 

 

“Do you wanna . . . go back upstairs?” I asked, feeling stupid, because of course he wanted to go back up to his clean, controlled environment, like, duh. 

 

Unfortunately, by that point Brian couldn’t answer me even if he’d tried. Luckily, he was too busy trying to rid himself of dust and get himself out of there in one piece to care much. I followed behind him, wincing as he knocked into a foot rest and then almost tripped over it before catching himself at the last minute. Since it was a pretty small room, he only had to dodge furniture for half a minute or so before he made it out through the fake brick wall opening into the basement proper. I could see him standing there, feet splayed apart, panting as if he’d just escaped after being chased by wild ravening beasts. And all the while, he was desperately trying to wipe at the dust coating pretty much every part of him.

 

I decided it would be best if I just closed the door to the tunnel - any further investigating would have to wait until I was on my own. The most important thing right then was making sure that Brian was okay. And, by the looks of him, that might take a while. 

 

“Push that in front of the door,” Brian ordered as he pointed towards a heavy wooden chest of drawers in the corner of the room. 

 

“What? Why?” I asked as I walked towards the chest, kicking at it with the toe of my sneaker ineffectually; the thing was heavier than it looked. 

 

“To stop them . . . to stop anyone getting in,” Brian explained, albeit in a rather garbled manner.

 

“Them who?” I still wasn’t getting what his problem was. I had thought his panic was only because of the dirt, but apparently there was more to it. “Nobody’s going to get in, Eggy. This tunnel has been here for, like, a hundred years. And judging by the amount of dust, it’s clear that this door hasn’t been opened in decades. I doubt anyone alive even knows it’s here. Who’s going to try and come in?”

 

“Just cover the damn door with the dresser . . . please,” he pleaded. 

 

So, of course, I did as I’d been directed, pushing and shoving at the old chest of drawers until I’d managed to drag it the few feet over to block the tunnel door. Then I joined Brian in the main part of the basement and pulled the door in the false brickwork wall closed as well. Once the room was all sealed up, I turned to look at my hermit and was not at all pleased with what I saw. He was totally wigging out but trying manfully to repress it at the same time. Basically, he was a mess.

 

“Come on, Eggy. Let’s get you back upstairs.”

 

“Did you put the dresser in front of the door like I told you to?” Brian asked as he tried his best to look around me. 

 

“Yes.” I tried my best to reassure him that he was safe. “You watched me do it . . . remember?”

 

I immediately felt guilty as Brian’s head seemed to droop and his shoulders sagged. Then I remembered what Daphne had told me about OCD being inherently irrational.  _ Of course  _ he remembered me doing it, he JUST saw me doing it, but this was his OCD trying to convince him otherwise. Trying to make him doubt what he saw was true. I didn’t need to point that out to him. I can be such an insensitive dolt sometimes. 

 

“Hey, Eggy, let’s head upstairs. I’m sure you’re dying to get a shower and clean all that dirt off,” I suggested, trying to redirect his attention away from the scary basement situation. “And while you’re doing that, I’ll be waiting for you in the next room, working on perfecting my wet man fantasies.”

 

Despite his moment of panic, that got a huff of amusement from my Eggy. Then he shook his head, blew out a long breath of tension, and started upstairs. I followed behind, closing doors behind me as I went, hoping that would be enough to quell all Brian’s misgivings about the tunnel and whomever might conceivably come through it. 

 

My man went directly up to his room and shut himself into the bathroom without another word, leaving me just sort of standing there, feeling like a sore thumb. I didn’t know how to fix this, but I couldn’t just leave him like that either. It was my stupid idea to explore the damn basement room that started all this. Egbert would have probably been perfectly fine living out the rest of his life without poking his head into that damn basement ever again and then nobody would have discovered the tunnel that was causing him to freak out. But I just had to satisfy my bottomless curiosity, didn’t I? Fuck me!

 

So, anyway, while Eggy did his thing in the shower - probably scrubbing half his skin off in the attempt to get rid of a century of tunnel dust - I just hung out in his living room without really knowing what to do with myself. I was too hyped up to even sketch, if you can believe that. I paced around the room for a good fifteen minutes, but when Brian still wasn’t out of the shower, I finally plopped down on the sofa in defeat. I felt so bad for having caused all this. And I felt worse because I didn’t know how to fix it. 

 

Of course, the boredom eventually revived my sense of curiosity even as I was mentally kicking myself for the consequences of my last bout of meddling. And, since I had nothing else to do right then, I picked up my phone, launching a quick internet search, trying to find something about tunnels in the City of Pittsburgh, which led me down so many rabbit holes - or tunnels, if you prefer - that I almost got lost. Who knew that The Pitts had so many damn tunnels? And not just the big kind that allow cars or trains to pass through the many hills of the city, but also pedestrian tunnels and even one old 1860s tunnel that was part of the original Underground Railway for slaves escaping prior to the Civil War. I also found discussion about some Victorian-era pedestrian tunnels under the city, used by the rich barons of industry, so that they could transverse from one building to another without having to go outside in the pollution and soot-ridden air, thereby getting their clothing dirty. That bit sounded like a possibility for our tunnel, but I couldn’t find any comprehensive list of these tunnels, let alone a map showing their locations. As far as I could tell, Eggy’s tunnel was hitherto unknown.

 

While I’d been delving into my researches, I’d heard the water in Brian’s bathroom finally shutting off, but he still hadn’t come out of his room. I took that as a bad sign. Poor Egbert was obviously still freaking out so badly that he couldn’t even bear my questionable company. This, in turn, was sorta starting to freak me out too. I could understand if he wanted some privacy after such a traumatic morning, but I didn’t want to just up and leave him. Especially not without at least saying goodbye. I didn’t want him to think I was abandoning him. Or that he’d somehow scared me off. As far as I was concerned, I was in this thing for the long haul, so I wasn’t about to leave my Eggy at that point. 

 

On the other hand, I didn’t want to intrude on his peaceful sanctuary either. Which left me at a loss as to what I should do. I thought about knocking on his bedroom door and asking if he was okay, but then I chickened out. That was his safe space and I didn’t want to leave him with nowhere to go where he could feel like himself. So, instead, I determined to simply wait him out. I was stubborn like that, you know? There’s no way Eggy’s neuroses could outlast ME! Besides, I didn’t have anything better to do that day, so I might as well wait around a bit and see if he might eventually reemerge. And, with that in mind, I made myself comfortable on Brian’s sofa, picked up my phone again so I could entertain myself as best as possible, and prepared to wait him out.

 

Unfortunately, boredom won the day. Before long I found myself nodding off, unable to concentrate on the game of sudoku I’d started. And the next thing I knew, I was blinking at the late afternoon sun now coming in through the window, forced to move by the crick that had developed in my neck from sleeping for so long in such an unusual position. I rubbed at the dried drool that had now encrusted itself all over my cheek, thinking that I must look a right treat. Damn! Falling asleep at Egbert’s was starting to become a habit. Too bad I was sleeping on his lumpy couch and not in his bed. Hopefully that would come. 

 

While I was stretching and trying to get circulation back in my legs, I listened carefully to see if I could hear any movement in the apartment. From my place of the sofa the only sounds I could hear were the springs creaking loudly under my ass and the sad little noise I made when I rubbed at my neck. I gave one last stretch, got to my feet, and then went on the hunt to find my man. I was starting to get hungry and wanted to know what food he had in his cupboards, but after this morning I didn’t want to go rummaging through them without speaking to him first. Who knew what might set him off next. 

 

Brian clearly wasn’t in the little sitting room where I’d been napping, so I headed down the hall to look for him in his office - the next most likely place to find him, or so I thought. But the office was eerily dark and it didn’t look as though he’d set foot in there all day. I wandered back down the hallway, putting my ear to the door of his bedroom, but it was deadly silent in there too. I figured he was probably sleeping off all the excitement from earlier, just like I had been, and decided not to bother him. 

 

However, as I wandered back to the living room I thought I heard something coming from the adjacent bathroom. I pressed myself up against the door and my heart wrenched a little at the sound of faint moaning coming from inside. Part of me thought I should leave him to deal with his emotional issues in peace, but the brattier, more stubborn side of my brain, took over. I just couldn’t leave the man to suffer like that. Without thinking about it, I pushed open the door - and fuck me sideways if I wasn’t blown away by the tableau I found inside - because my Egbert wasn’t standing there moaning in pain . . . he was moaning in pleasure as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror jerking off.

 

From where I was standing in the doorway, Brian was facing away from me. He was shirtless and his pants were lowered to just below his perky little butt cheeks. I could see all the muscles in his back rippling under his damp skin as he worked his cock with vigor, his biceps flexing deliciously with every pull and tug. It was a truly glorious sight.

 

I don’t know what I was thinking - okay, let’s be honest, I probably wasn’t, because half-naked Egbert was enough to overload any gay boy’s rational mind - but without even a moment’s hesitation, I just walked right into the bathroom, intent on getting a better view. What did you expect? We’re talking wet and naked Brian having a jolly ol’ time with himself. I wanted a piece of that too. 

 

As soon as I was through the doorway, our eyes met in the bathroom mirror and, for a moment, I was worried I had made the wrong decision. His eyes were dark and hard to read in the dim light, but as I walked towards him I could see him following my every move. His hand never stopped, only slowed briefly. 

 

I pulled my shirt over my head and unbuckled my jeans at record breaking speed, pulling them just below my ass so that we were mirroring each other in what we were wearing. 

 

“Take . . .” His deep voice, seemingly out of nowhere, made me jump. “Take it all off, Sunshine. I want to see all of you.”

 

We locked eyes in the mirror and I could see he meant it, so I did as he asked. I kicked my jeans and briefs off in what was probably one of my least sexiest moves but, if the way he groaned at the sight was any indication, Brian didn’t seem to mind. As soon as I was naked, his eyes began to roam my body in the mirror, starting at my chest, his eyes widening as they took in the nipple ring I had put on this morning, and then working their way lower and lower with an avidness that made me even harder than I already had been. 

 

Brian’s left hand wandered up to his own chest and his fingers teased his nipple. “Pull on it,” he moaned. 

 

I pulled on the small golden ring and groaned loudly. It was as though my cock was attached directly to my nipples and each little tug made my dick harder and harder. At this rate I wouldn’t even last long enough to get a hand on my dick.

 

“Brian, this . . .” I pointed to my erection which was standing to attention like it never had before, “this is because of you.”

 

He moaned again at my announcement and his eyes lingered over my impressive eight and a half incher. I couldn’t help it, I had to touch myself, thrusting into my curled fingers. The thick head of my cock slipped out of my fist as though it has a mind of its own and was trying to impress. Which, I’m happy to say, by the look on Brian’s face, it certainly did. And that look of longing he sent my way caused another wave of lust to sweep through me, culminating in a bead of sticky white pearling at the tip of my eager cock.

 

He shifted his body, turning more to face me but still using the mirror as a visual go-between. Now that I could see beyond his beautiful back, I noticed the opened box of condoms waiting on the counter. It was only then that I noticed he was whacking off while fully suited up. I reached around him, into the box, and pulled out a second condom for myself because, hey, why not? The more the merrier and all that shit right? Besides, I was never one to be left out. It was obviously a good call, too, because the sound he made as I rolled it on was almost enough to make me cum right there and then. I had to give myself a good hard squeeze before I managed to rein myself in. No way was I fucking ruining this by coming early. 

 

As soon as I had myself under control, our eyes met again in the mirror, and he watched as I started jerking off too. His hand copied mine and it wasn’t long before we were completely in sync. With my wet, hairy, dreamboat in front of me, I doubted I’d last long. It was pretty clear that my Eggy was struggling not to come as well. Don’t you just love a good wank-fest? Fuck knows I do. 

 

“When I’m . . .” Fuck, it was hard to talk when all the blood had drained out of my brain into my cock. “When I’m home . . . and thinking about you . . . I touch myself like this . . . pretending my hand is yours.”

 

The muscles in Brian’s arm tensed when I said that, as though he was imagining what it would be like. 

 

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice deep and raspy with want. 

 

I nodded.

 

“I knew you were big.” I licked my lips, they were all of a sudden so dry. “But holy shit,” I groaned, watching his fingers contract as he thrust forward through the constriction of his fist. “The thought of that . . . inside me . . . stretching me . . . Fuck, it’s driving me crazy. Damn it, Eggy . . . you have the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen . . . What are you, nine inches?” I moaned again - couldn’t fucking help myself - I mean, you should have seen that dick, it was truly moan-worthy and something I was going to be sketching for the rest of my fucking life.

 

“Pfft. Nine inches? Try nine and a half,” the big braggart corrected me with a smug grin as he proudly pulled on the subject of our conjecture again. “Maybe closer to ten, actually.”

I couldn’t help but throw my head back in laughter. I loved that little glimpse of self-confidence coming out. I loved the brashness of it all, even at the same time I knew he was exaggerating. But that didn’t matter to me in the least. I just liked knowing that my Eggy was feeling bold enough to play the game with me. There is nothing more sexy than a man who knows his self-worth, even if he’s pushing the limit a little. And, right at that moment, there was nothing in the world I found sexier than this enigmatic man full of all his contradictions, bold and sexy at the same time he was fragile and scared. Oh, and did I mention hot? So fucking hot . . . 

 

“I’m . . . I’m close, Justin,” he panted heavily and that sound sent shockwaves to my balls. 

 

“Yeah?” I asked, feeling extremely close myself. 

 

“I . . . I may not be able to give . . . this to you . . . yet, Sunshine, but just imagine . . . imagine my fist is you . . .”

 

So, yeah, I’ve always had a great imagination - even back when I was just a child - and it wasn’t at all a hardship to follow Brian’s orders and imagine it was my tight little ass that he was shoving that huge pulsing dong into. But that was all it took to drive me completely over the edge. I could feel my balls contracting and that shock of anticipation rippling through every one of my nerve endings as my whole body tensed in preparation. All that, just from his words of promise. Hell, I couldn’t have stopped myself at that point for anything. 

 

“Here I come, Sunshine,” Egbert announced as he threw his head back and groaned with exquisite pleasure. 

 

“Briannnnnnn,” was my only answer as I followed him into bliss. 

 

When my brain finally came back online after what had to have been one of the most satisfying orgasms I’d ever had without actual physical contact with another person, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Damn, Eggy, who said you weren’t the adventurous type? Look what you made me do?” I stripped off the condom, which was filled almost to overflowing, and shook my head. “You sure that thing of yours is only ten inches? More like three feet cuz, judging by the amount of spunk I just shot, I could have sworn I was fucked within an inch of my life by you. Or did we just invent telekinetic fucking?”

 

“Justin . . . shut up,” my beautiful, hairy, hermit man ordered, although I could tell by the ear-to-ear smile that peeked out from under his beard that he was just as over-the-top happy as I was right then. 

  
**********

[ My Secret Place by Joni Mitchell ](https://youtu.be/StCve-J4ofk) . 

[ Pittsburgh Tunnels ](https://www.pittsburghmagazine.com/Pittsburgh-Magazine/February-2016/Underground-Pittsburgh-Explore-our-City-of-Tunnels/index.php?cparticle=2&siarticle=1&requiressl=true#artanc) and also,  [ Grant Building Ped Tunnel ](https://popularpittsburgh.com/the-grant-buildings-presence-in-pittsburgh/) .   [ Pittsburgh Walking Tours ](https://www.freetourspittsburgh.com/) .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1/10/19 - When TAG went back to visit Pittsburgh to do research before starting to write this story, she went on a great walking tour which is where she found out about all the tunnels in the city - and which directly led to this part of the story. If you’re interested, there are some sources about all the tunnels in the city in the links at the bottom of the chapter. Also, if you’re in Pittsburgh and want to take the walking tour, which comes highly recommended, there's a link for that too. The guy that gives the tours was a font of information (Tell him I sent you!). And, also, also, we know you’ll likely have questions about the ending of this chapter, and we promise to explain more in the next chapter. TAG & Sally.


	16. History Repeating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fun with our boys, plus another clue to the mystery of Egbert's building . . . Enjoy! TAG & Sally

  
  


Chapter 16 - History Repeating.

  
  


It took me a few minutes after I woke up the next morning before I realized where I was. The room I was lying in was dimly lit - even though I suspected it was already fairly late in the morning - and the poor lighting made it even more difficult to suss out my surroundings. The old-fashioned brass bedstead and other antique furniture threw me off at first. Then I remembered that I’d stayed over at Eggy’s the night before in order to ‘protect’ him from the invaders that he’d imagined coming in through his tunnel. Luckily, this time he took pity on me and, instead of his couch, offered me one of his spare rooms - get real, he owned an entirely empty six story building, so it’s not like he was short on space, right? - so I’d jumped on the opportunity. 

 

I could have stayed curled up in bed all morning, it was so warm and cosy - and let’s be honest, it was a hell of a lot more comfortable than that damned couch - but my stomach was already protesting at going without dinner the night before. So if I didn’t get up and eat something now, I was only going to embarrass myself later when my tummy would start making those awful gremlin noises it makes when I neglect it. Plus, I was eager to go find my Egbert and fill my eyes with his morning yumminess. Food for the body and food for the soul at the same time, right?

 

I kicked the covers off and shivered as the cold air hit my bare skin. I’d never noticed how cold the building was until now, but maybe that’s because I’d never been completely naked while wandering around the place before. I hooked a leg over the side of the bed and picked up my discarded clothes with my toes, flicking them back up onto bed like some kind of clothing ninja. It was something I’d done ever since I was small and I had perfected the skill to an embarrassing level of greatness. I quickly got dressed, making sure my socks were tucked into my pants because it was so cold that I didn’t want any unnecessary skin showing. I made my way quietly down the hall to Brian’s rooms in case my host was still fast asleep, but as I turned the corner to the main living area, there he was, standing by the small breakfast bar in what passed for his kitchen.

 

From where I was hovering he couldn’t see me, but I had a perfect view of my man as he bent down, his shapely ass up in the air, so that he was eye level with the toasted bagel he was liberally spreading with cream cheese. He was eyeing up both halves, and spreading a little more cheese here and there until I assume they were both even. Shit, my mouth was watering and I didn’t know if it was from the half naked man in front of me or the thought of a toasted bagel smothered in creamy Philadelphia  . . . probably both to be being honest. All I knew was that I wanted to lick something.

 

I shivered as a cool draft from the hallway brushed at my neck. I couldn’t help but smile as he jumped from the noise I must have made - dropping his knife in the process and tutting loudly as it clattered into the sink and splattered the countertop with cream cheese and bagel crumbs. So much for those OCD-clean counters, huh?

 

“Sorry,” I bit my lip as I walked into the kitchen and stood across from him, smiling almost shyly. 

 

I don’t know why I suddenly felt almost nervous around him; not in a bad way, more of a fluttery tummy kind of way. 

 

“It’s okay. I should be used to you sneaking around and scaring the shit out of me by now.” He smiled at me as he started cleaning up. 

 

“I try my best to keep you on your toes,” I teased.

 

“My toes? You’ve done more than that, Sunshine. You’ve almost killed me a couple of times.”

 

I looked up from staring at his breakfast and was relieved to see he was teasing. “I promise, your life has always been safe with me around. Your breakfast, though, is another matter.” 

 

And with that warning I reached around him, grabbed the plate with the perfectly spread bagel away from him and danced away with my ill-gotten gains. “Nom, nom, nom.”

 

“You’re a . . .”

 

“Pain in your ass? I know, I know,” I laughed as I took a huge bite, moaning as I swallowed. Man, I was hungry. I continued watching him out of the corner of my eye as I devoured my stolen bagel. I was happy to see an equally hungry look in Eggy’s eyes - and I don’t think it was just the bagel he was lusting after either. 

 

“So, uh . . .” I cleared my throat and was just about to lick some cream cheese off my finger but managed to stop myself before doing so. “Are we going to talk about last night or . . .”

 

“What’s there to talk about?” Brian replied, as he went about making coffee for the both of us, cool as a cucumber.

 

“I dunno . . . I guess I just wasn’t expecting . . . THAT . . . Don’t get me wrong, I totally loved it . . .”

 

He looked a little smug as he smiled at me over the steaming cup in his hands. “Of course you did. What’s not to love?”

 

“I think I’m more confused than anything.” I had no idea what I was saying at that point. 

 

Brian placed one of the mugs down on the coffee table in front of me - right smack damn in the middle of the coaster, like he’d had years of practice aiming at coasters. “About?”

 

I suddenly felt a little embarrassed. “I just never thought you . . .”

 

“What? That I whacked off? Choked my chicken? Drained the main vein?” He laughed out loud at my surprised look.

 

Egbert was evil. I think he relished the fact that he was the one that wasn’t uncomfortable for once. That he was in charge of this discussion. That he was the one in control. And he wasn’t going to let me off the hook, either. 

 

I blushed deeply. I guess I’d never really thought about it before. I mean, I thought about him doing it but not him  _ actually _ doing it - if that made any sense. I dunno . . . I guess his hermit-like personality confused me. I knew he’d not been outside for a while, but did I think of him as sexless? I’m not sure what I thought, to be honest. 

 

“I’m not a monk, Justin,” he stated, apparently reading my mind, and then laughing again.

 

I could tell he was enjoying this.

 

“Can I ask you something?”

 

“I think we crossed that line a while ago, don’t you?” Brian winked cheekily. “But sure. Although I can’t guarantee you’ll get an answer.”

 

“The condoms?”

 

“What about them?” He shrugged. 

 

He knew what I was asking but he wasn’t going to make this easy for me. He wanted me to ask the actual question. Which, normally, I wouldn’t have hesitated over. Why I suddenly felt so jittery around my hermit, I had no idea, but there I was. I had to give myself a good mental kick in the pants to prod myself into asking the question I was so curious about.

 

“Do you always use a condom when you . . . you know?” 

 

Shit, why was I suddenly sounding like sixteen year old Daphne? Masturbating isn’t a topic I’m usually embarrassed to talk about, but right then I sounded like a teenage girl. Great! I think it must be because he was teasing me - I’d never really seen this playful side of my Eggy before and I kinda loved it - like a lot. It sorta threw me though. It turned the tables on our prior retaliationship making Brian the aggressor and I just wasn’t prepared for that switch, you know?

 

“What? When I’m Jackin’ the Beanstalk? Milking my Monkey? Pounding my Pu . . .”

 

I covered my eyes with my hand. “Yes, that,” I laughed. 

 

He rolled his bottom lip into his mouth and looked me right in the eye as he answered. “Yeah, I do.”

 

I hesitated briefly before asking the logical next question, “Why?” 

 

He did the lip thing again looked so freaking hot when he did it that my urge to jump him was almost unbearable. “Because it's all . . .” he sighed almost sadly, “wet and sticky.”

 

I heard myself groan loudly at the thought of getting all wet and sticky with him. “Mmm, exactly. That’s what’s so fucking good about it.”

 

Brian shook his head as though he was trying to rid himself of those messy thoughts. “Maybe for you it is,” he exhaled loudly, “but not for those of us with . . . OCD . . . issues. If I had to think about all that . . . mess . . . then I’d be too distracted to actually get off.”

 

“Even though it’s your mess?” I was doing my best to try and understand what Brian was saying, not that it was easy, because, personally, I love a little mess, you know? “I guess I can understand if it’s someone else’s,” I offered, although I definitely didn’t have that problem myself, “but when it’s mine . . . I actually kinda really like it.” I was definitely blushing now. 

 

Brian rolled his eyes playfully. “Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” I shrugged impishly just to play along, which caused him to huff with amusement, but then he continued with his explanation. “Anyway, my method is definitely more efficient than yours. When I’m done filling up one condom, I can just rip it off, toss it in the trash, and then roll on another without missing a beat. My clean up time is minimal so I’m not slowed down between sessions. My hand stays clean and my dick stays happy.”

 

“Jesus, how many do you go through at a time?” That factor probably wasn’t what I should be focusing on, but I can’t blame my brain for instantly going there. 

 

Brian shrugged, “two or three . . . it depends what’s on my mind.” 

 

He said that last part while looking directly at me with this provocative little smile. My shy little hermit had seemingly turned into quite the flirt, and it was pretty much the biggest turn on I’d ever experienced. I didn’t even bother hiding the fact that I was squeezing myself through my pants by that point; the slight relief in pressure it gave me was enough to make me sigh. 

 

“You only used the one last night though . . .”

 

“Justin,” he scoffed like I had just insulted his manliness. “You caught me at the tail end. I’d already been going at it a while . . . I’m surprised I had anything left.”

 

That made me smile. 

 

“That was maybe my fifth . . .” he bragged, eliciting an impressed whistle from me.

 

“Wow. Five? And here I thought I had pretty amazing stamina,” I replied. 

 

Brian just tilted his head to the side in a self-deprecating gesture and shrugged. “I’m sure you do fine . . . And, while we’re on the topic, may I say that you definitely have a nice sized dick to work with. I’m assuming you’d have to use the Magnum XL Trojans if you were doing things my way. And that’s not just because of the volume of the load you shoot either.”

 

I laughed out loud.

 

Was he really just standing there complimenting my dick size while casually drinking his cup of coffee as though this was everyday breakfast conversation? I  _ definitely  _ liked me some playful, confident Egbert. 

 

“It’s not so much the length I have to worry about, but more the girth,” I returned, bragging a little myself.

 

Even as I said the words, though, I was amazed by my own temerity. I couldn’t believe that I was telling him any of this. Talk about my mouth working faster than my brain. 

 

Meanwhile, Brian licked his lips and hummed happily to himself, his eyes a little unfocused as if my words had led his imagination somewhere fun. I was hoping he was fantasizing about my cock and all the wondrous things I could do to him with it. A boy can dream, right? And after the night before, I knew for certain that would be all I was dreaming about. 

  
  


Unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to stick around for long after that provocative breakfast with my Egbert. We were both a bit bummed, especially when I had to tell him that I couldn’t come back that night. I perversely enjoyed his disappointment since it was just another sign that I’d managed to get under my Hermit’s skin. But there was no way I’d get out of my commitment for that night. 

 

See, most of the time my father and I kept our distance. He liked to pretend that I didn’t exist, because having a gay artist as a son simply wasn’t acceptable in his circle, you know? But twice a year, when he just couldn’t avoid it, he forced me to appear with him at ‘family’ functions where he was expected to show up with doting children in tow. I envied my mother, who had been excused from these events by way of her divorce, but since Father Dearest still controlled the purse strings to my education trust, I didn’t have the leverage to tell him to just fuck off. Therefore, every year, come Christmas and Independence Day, my sister, Molly, and I were dressed up, threatened with grave consequences if we misbehaved, and then marched into my dad’s club to play the role of good little children. The parties were intensely boring and several times I’d contemplated just telling Dad off, but until I finished school and was able to support myself, I had to continue to be nice to him. 

 

Unfortunately, it just happened to be one of those nights. It was the Duquesne Club Christmas Party - a holiday tradition that went back more than a hundred years, if the hype was to be believed. So, I was obligated to appear, dressed in a monkey suit approved by Dad, and do my duty as the obedient offspring. Fuck me. 

 

When I told Brian that I could still pop over the next morning, the look of relief and, dare I say it, happiness, on Eggy’s face gave me a nice memory to leave with. I would need to fill my head with happy and somewhat innocent thoughts if I was going to get through the night. It’s not as though I could spend the evening thinking about our bathroom escapades - having a hard on the whole evening surrounded by my father’s country club friends was not my idea of fun - not that it would be easy to get the images out of my head. Yep, I had it bad and there was nothing I could do about it.

 

Anyways, I headed home right after breakfast, spent a couple hours sketching the deliciously naughty scenes I’d just lived through, and then got ready with as little effort as I could get away with while still looking acceptable enough to be seen with my father - his words, not mine. As I was doing my hair in the hall mirror, I couldn’t stop thinking about how it usually takes me at least double the time to get ready for an evening at Babylon. No one can say I don’t prioritise. 

 

Dad had a car pick me up - heaven forbid Dad might actually care enough to pick up his children himself, right? - and then we headed off to Mom’s condo for Molly. Molly climbed into the car with me, frowning just as much as I was, and not saying anything more than ‘hello’. She proceeded to take her cell phone out and spent the rest of the ride to the club engrossed in her social media feed, which was fine by me because I wasn’t in the mood to talk.

 

Molls - as I like to call her when I’m in a good mood, which is a lot nicer than ‘Fartface’, the nickname I use when she’s being an annoying little brat - is fourteen years old and as obnoxious as any girl her age. It doesn’t help that there is almost six years difference in our ages. We don’t really have that much in common. We pretty much fight all the time. But ever since Dad had made it known within the family that he didn’t approve of my ‘disgusting, unnatural ways’, Molly had suddenly given up idolizing our father, become much more of a mommy’s girl, and now barely tolerated him. And our mutual, yet unspoken, dislike of the Club Christmas party was something else we could still bond over. Hey, it’s a WASP thing - this suffering in polite silence yet doing what you have to do because of the family money - so don’t judge us. 

 

Our car was met at the curb by the well appointed Duquesne Club doorman and we were quickly ushered under the red entrance awning and out of the bad weather. The staid, old, five-story stone edifice was bedecked with festive yet restrained holiday lights along the front walk and all the windows were brightly lit. There was a crowd of people already waiting to get inside, so we had to wait a few moments on the walkway just next to the plaque on the front balustrade that announced the building was on the National Register of Historic Places. I noted from the date on the plaque that the club was built right around the same time as my Triangle Building - 1889 per the sign - and vaguely wondered why Eggy hadn’t pursued the same distinction for his building. Maybe I’d suggest it to him the next time I saw him, I thought, as we finally made it through the front doors into the club proper.

  
  


Despite the onerousness of it all, things were going pretty well after we arrived at the party. Molly and I found our way to the ballroom where we dutifully checked in with Dad. We smiled and pretended to care while he introduced us to the group of businessmen nearby. I noted that Dad bragged on and on about Molly, her grades, and the fact that she was a forward on the school field hockey team, but said very little about me other than I was ‘in college’. He was probably afraid if he mentioned that I was attending the Art Institute of Pittsburgh, all his friends would know I was a fag. Whatever. I didn’t care about any of these doddering old bigots. I was only there because I had to be, so I swallowed my annoyance and tuned out the rest of their drivel. Luckily, the conversation very soon veered back to business topics, which meant that Molly and I were no longer needed. We were shooed away and ordered to mingle until further notice. 

 

I took Molly with me to the bar and got her a soda, flashing my fake ID so I could get a beer for myself. Then Molly spotted a group of girls she knew and she abandoned me. Typical. I could have followed suit and tried to join one of the groupings of younger men, some of whom I had met before at various functions, but I just wasn’t in a social mood that night. The thought of standing around with a bunch of Chads, talking about the benefits of protein powder, their workout regimens, and all the Staceys they were currently boning, made my my stomach curdle. It really sucked that I had to be there at all, wasting my evening on such drivel, instead of hanging out with my mysterious Egbert, but I kept reminding myself it would be worth it once I graduated from art school and became the next Andy Warhol. However, that didn’t mean I had to suffer through the pain of actually talking to any of these losers. 

 

So, rather than join in with the mingling, I wandered the periphery of the room, strolling around at random and pretending to look at the pictures and artwork on the walls while I sipped at my beer, smiling ambiguously at the people I passed along the way. Fuck I was bored. So, so, so, so bored. There was absolutely nothing to entertain myself with. I fleetingly thought about maybe asking one of the hot waiters I saw darting around to dance, which would likely blow a few minds in that conservative crowd. I thought about devoting my time to getting really drunk, seeing as it was an open bar and I wasn’t one to pass up free booze, but decided it was probably a bad idea if my goal was to keep on dad’s good side. I thought about slitting my wrists right there in the middle of the fucking ballroom just to add a little excitement to the night, but . . . okay, I was being a total drama queen but, seriously, I was THAT bored. 

 

Just as I was getting desperate enough that I began to contemplate giving up my wallflower impression and surrendering to the nearest group of Chads, a tittering debutante who looked like she was on her second or third glass of champagne bumped into another of the guests, who happened to be walking past me at the moment, knocking the gentleman into me and causing me to spill my beer all down the front of my dinner jacket. The man immediately began to apologize and tried to use his own cocktail napkin to help dab at the beer stains. I waved him off, telling him it was no big deal, and joking that I’d always hated that damned jacket anyway but that my father said I couldn’t wear my tuxedo t-shirt. He laughed at my unorthodox comment and smiled again, insisting that he would at the very least go get me another drink. I accepted, offering him one of my best Justin Taylor patented grins in return. As he trotted off towards the bar, with me still wiping up the dregs of my beer, I chuckled to myself, thinking that at least I was no longer bored. Thank fuck for distractions, right? 

 

The guy was back in only a few minutes, bringing my fresh beer. We chatted for a bit, mostly complaining about how we both hated these affairs, and then he excused himself saying he needed to get back to his date. I tapped the neck of my beer against his highball glass as a gesture of thanks and nodded a goodbye. Then he left and I went back to being bored.

 

Unfortunately my boredom didn’t last all that long because I was almost immediately set upon by a quietly fuming and hissing father. 

 

“What was all that?” My father asked irritatedly as he pulled me over into a quiet corner of the room. His eyes were darker than usual; over the years I had learned this meant he was royally pissed off about something. 

 

“Huh?” What on earth was he jabbering on about?

 

“I saw you . . . fraternizing . . . with Peter Wyzkopf’s son. What were you doing? Flirting with him? Trying to pick him up? You know very well how I feel about that sort of behavior, Justin. It’s disgusting and I won’t have you embarrassing me like that here, in front of my friends.”

 

Oh, that. And really, if he thought that was me flirting then I feel sorry for him. How clueless can you get?

 

“I was  _ just _ talking to him, Dad,” I tried explaining - which fucking pissed me off, because I shouldn’t have to explain anything about what I was just doing. “He knocked into me and spilled beer down the front of my shirt . . .”

 

“Listen.” Craig exhaled loudly through his nose - another mannerism from my childhood that I remember all too well and that never resulted in anything good happening. “I don’t give a damn about what started it, I just don’t want you humiliating me any more than you have already.”

 

I clenched my fists tightly by my sides, I had to really force myself not to do something I would regret later. How fucking dare he though? Humiliate him more than I already have? If anyone there had reason to be embarrassed it was me, seeing as I had to put up with his homophobic ranting. I wanted to tell him off so bad, I could feel the words crawling up my throat, itching to get out, screaming at him to take his club and his fellow bigots and go fuck himself . . . but then I remembered all that lovely money and the fact that I had none and that this stupid party was the price I had to pay to get my art degree . . . and I clamped down the anger yet again.

 

“I need some air,” I muttered as I turned my back and headed out of the room. 

 

I could hear Craig calling after me, but I just kept walking. I really wasn’t in the mood to deal with his bullshit and if I’d stayed any longer I might have lost the battle and told him what I really thought. So, rather than risk next semester’s tuition, I wisely removed myself from the situation. Luckily, Craig was too afraid of making a scene to bother coming after me and let me go. Of course, I didn’t breathe easily until I’d rounded the corner and was out of the man’s direct line of vision. 

 

While I silently bitched my progenitor out in my head, I continued to stroll along the hallways of the club. The decor was exactly what you’d expect: it was elegant and staid and looked expensive. Everything smelled like wood polish. The wood floor was covered in a thick oriental carpet runner. The furniture consisted of groupings of wingback chairs and small side tables set up along the walls, all heavy pieces made of sturdy wood and plush padding with far too many velvet and brocade cushions. It felt stuffy and confining and like I was totally out of my element. However the walls were adorned with some fairly decent artwork - the club had to do something with all the money it raked in via those exorbitantly high membership dues, right? - so I was content for the time being to focus on that rather than my annoyance with my father.

 

Tucked in between the real art, the club had hung photos of their members from over the years. And, seeing as The Duquesne Club was more than a hundred years old, there were some pretty ancient pictures on those walls, I can tell you. It was almost more fun to look at the pictures than the art, despite how expensive or how well known I knew the artists were, since the subject of most of the artwork was a snooze. I mean, let’s face it, how many still lifes of vases and flowery landscapes do you really need to look at, no matter how esteemed the artists might be? No wonder I was finding the old photographs more interesting than the artwork for once in my life. 

 

The further I walked along the corridor, the more dated the photos became. It was like walking backwards in time. You could tell the age of the pictures without looking at the captions just by the way the photography changed. The photos went from modern color photography, to the kodachrome yellow-tinted photos of the sixties and seventies, to black and white, to the even older, silver-tinged photos of the thirties and forties, to the downright ancient sepia tinted photos from around the beginning of the twentieth century. And at the very end of the hallway where I was walking there were several pictures from back when the club - and Pittsburgh for that matter - were relatively new. 

 

I recognized the first couple of photos, which were straight out of the architectural history course I’d just finished at school. There was one of the Allegheny County Courthouse’s ‘Bridge of Sighs’ - the bridge that connected the Courthouse to the jail so that inmates could be walked to their hearings without escaping - and another of the Smithfield Street Bridge when it was just being built. There was also a picture of a smallish brick structure that I didn’t recognize. When I leaned in to read the caption, I discovered that the photo depicted the original building on the site where the current Duquesne Club now stood. Apparently there had been an earlier building here, which had been destroyed in a fire and subsequently rebuilt in 1889, remade into the much more imposing structure where I was standing. Who knew, huh? The final picture showed the rebuilt club in its present incarnation dating from 1889.

  
  


Next to the picture of the older version of the Club, there was a photo or two of what purported to be the ‘founding’ members of the social club. These were just the kind of photos you’d expect; a group of sober looking gentlemen wearing dark suits, standing around with somber expressions, trying to portray the gravitas of their social standing in the burgeoning metropolis of Pittsburgh. Basically, they pretty much all looked like they had broomsticks up their asses and weren’t happy about it. I at least got a good laugh out of that thought.

  
  
  


Leaning in closer, I was able to read the little brass plaques attached to the bottom of the photo’s frames. The first, and clearly the oldest photo of them all, was of the ‘Founders’, and the inscription listed the gentlemen’s names. I whistled as I read through the list; there were some impressive and well-known names here. Alfred Childs, Henry Phipps, B.F. Jones, John Chalfant . . . Any kid who’d grown up in The Pitts would recognize those names. No wonder this club claimed such exclusivity with those men as their originating members. Although, to look at them, they all looked like a bunch of tight-assed, old, grumps. Not exactly the kind of guys I’d want to socialize with.

  
  


The second photo wasn’t quite as old and the individuals pictured included some younger men, so it was probably the second generation of club members. According to the plaque on that one, these were the members of the club as of 1885. The list of these fellow’s names were just as impressive though. There, in the front row, was a relatively young-looking Andrew Carnegie and, on the other side of the picture was his future rival, Henry Clay Frick. I scanned through the rest of the names quickly, not recognizing all of them, until I was stopped short at the last three names listed there.

 

Hidden in the last row of the men pictured were three gents whose names I had come across quite recently: Andrew Peebles, Jay Frick and, the youngest of those pictured by far, sweet little William Carnegie. 

 

My Eggy’s mystery men were all here, pictured together, standing shoulder to shoulder forever in this dusty old photo. Small world, huh? So I had been right that they all knew each other back in the day? That was telling. 

 

I immediately pulled my phone out of my pocket, unable to wait even a second more before telling Brian about my latest discovery.

********

[ History Repeating by Propellerheads ](https://youtu.be/15QngStkp-E) . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1/26/19 - And we get another clue to the past here . . . we’d love to hear your speculation about the mystery in the basement of Eggy’s building. It’s fun to see if our readers can guess where we’re going. So, have at it in the comments. Thanks need to go out to Kari for all her suggestions and typo assistance on this chapter. TAG & Sally


	17. I Send A Message

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about some sexy fun times? I know I'm ready for it! Enjoy! TAG & Sally

Chapter 17 - I Send A Message.

  
  


I was so excited to tell Brian all about my discovery at the club the night before, that I was out of bed at the ridiculously early early hour of 8AM the next morning. Well, it was ridiculously early for ME, especially considering that I was on winter break. I scarfed down my two bowls of cereal way faster than I probably should have and started getting ready. My plan was to stop by Eggy’s on my way to my shift at the Diner. I quickly threw a change of clothes for after work into my messenger bag and decided to throw in a pair of pajama pants just in case I got an invitation for another sleepover. I made sure to pack my book on the history of Gauguin to read during the Diner's slow periods. I might as well use my spare time to study, right? Otherwise I’d just spend it daydreaming about my delectable Hunky Hermit. 

 

I was out the door within twenty minutes of getting out of bed - which must be some kind of record for me. I took the bus down to Liberty Avenue, thanking the Pittsburgh transportation gods for my bus running on time so that I didn’t have to wait too long out in the cold. The weather had turned bitter and I wasn’t wearing nearly enough layers. It looked like Pittsburgh was going to get that white Christmas so many idiots always wished for. Hmm. There’s an idea; maybe I could arrange to be snowed in with my Egbert for the holidays this year?

  
  


As I walked past Crazy Mocha, I was debating whether or not to buy us both another cup of coffee, but by the time I was off the bus and making my way towards the Triangle Building my mind was made up. I was freezing and I needed something warm to hold so that I didn’t feel as though my fingers were going to fall off. I ordered myself a triple shot espresso and an Eggnog Mocha for my man, because I was feeling the Holiday spirit, you know? I also ordered a couple of gingerbread muffins because my cereal hadn’t seemed to fill me up at all. Maybe I’m still growing? . . . I laughed to myself as I walked out of the coffee shop - wishful thinking! I’d stopped growing a while ago. I was clearly destined to be short. Of course, that just meant all my twinkie hotness was crammed into a more compact package for my Eggy to love.

 

I did my usual cat burglar thing, then raced up the stairs two at a time. I had already perfected doing this, even while holding a hot drink in each hand, and could now make it inside and up the six flights of stairs fairly quickly without spilling a drop. I remembered to knock before going into Brian‘s rooms, though, like the polite housebreaker I was.

 

It didn’t take long for the door to open. A small part of me wondered if Brian was expecting me. Was I getting predictable? Oh, who cares. Young love and all . . . And, yep, there he was. He was standing in the doorway wearing only a pair of baggy sweats and no shirt. I was so stunned by the vision of yumminess in front of me I might have drooled. Damn, my Eggy is one FINE specimen of man meat! Fuck the gingerbread muffins, I wanted to eat him!

 

“Ah, the young sneak thief returns,” Brian chuckled as he stood aside to let me in. 

 

I must have looked like a right twat as I stood there staring at Brian’s bare chest, but holy fuck, he was beautiful. I could climb him like a tree. 

 

“You what?” 

 

Shit, I hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “Uh . . . Um . . . You . . . Shit, Eggy, you better take this before I faint.”

 

I held out the mocha towards him and pretended to slouch against the door frame as if I really were about to topple over. I could see him eyeing me carefully, unsure about what I was doing, but after only a moment or two his hand reached out shakily and took the cup from me. I felt myself smile, but did my best not to make a big deal out of it - even though it WAS a big fucking deal. 

 

Brian took the cup over to the breakfast bar and put it down, immediately rubbing his hands together the way I had seen him do numerous times before. It was moments like this that I wished I could read his mind, to know his thought process. He stood still, his eyes flicking from his hands, to the cup, and then to the antibacterial wipes just next to him. I was silently cheering him on, hoping he’d feel the mental strength that I was beaming his way. It must have worked because the hand that was hovering over the wipes fell back down to his side and I could see the faintest of smiles on his lips. He was proud of himself, and so he should be. And even more excitingly, he reached back for the cup and held it in his hands once more - not for long - but you could see he was trying it out and loving the feeling of elation he got from doing it. Then he surprised me even further by bringing the cup up to his face and taking a long sniff, sighing happily as the sweet smelling syrup penetrated his nose. 

 

“This smells so good.”

 

“You know what else is good? The taste.” I smiled cheekily as I said it so that he knew I wasn’t pressuring him. 

 

I wasn’t expecting him to take me seriously - he never had before - but I just thought I’d make the attempt. And, while I stood there with my mouth wide open like some sort of gormless fish, my brave boy sighed, lifted the cup to his lips, and took a VERY tentative sip. I could feel my heart beating rapidly in my chest as I held my breath and watched his face carefully while it took on at least ten different expressions within a very short space of time. 

 

“It’s good, right?” I didn’t know what else to say, but knew I had to say something as I could see the panic in his eyes start to set in. 

 

Brian nodded and put the cup back on the counter. I could see he didn’t know what to do with his hands, but then he finally brought one up to his mouth and gave it a quick wipe - as though he was trying to erase what he’d just done. 

 

“Brian?”

 

I made my way towards him, his silence scaring me a little. 

 

“I . . . I did it. Shit. Did you see that, Justin?” 

 

The awe in his voice was enough to give me that jelly-belly feeling I get so much with him. 

 

“I did . . . I saw, Brian. That was . . . Shit, I’m so proud of you.” And I meant it; I don’t think I have ever smiled so hard. 

 

He rolled his eyes but I could see my compliment meant something to him. His naked chest had turned a lovely shade of red and the tips of his ears were glowing. “It was nice. What flavor was that?”

 

“Eggnog.”

 

But before I could ask him any more, Brian began to pace the kitchen area. 

 

“Brian?”

 

“I shouldn’t have . . . I don’t know who made it.”

 

“No, but I . . .”

 

“What if the milk wasn’t fresh?”

 

“I . . .” he wasn’t even giving me time to try and answer him. 

 

“What if it makes me sick?” I could hear the anxiety in his voice as he rubbed his stomach.  “I can’t get sick. I can’t BE sick.”

 

I walked over and stood in front of him, cornering him slightly to try and stop him from pacing. “Brian . . . Stop . . . Brian, listen to me. Are you listening?”

 

Finally he looked at me. “I can’t get sick, Justin.”

 

“You won’t!” I wanted more than anything to reach out and touch him, but now really wasn’t the time. It would only make things worse. 

 

“You don’t know that . . .” He was back to manically rubbing his hands together. 

 

“Trust me?” I asked. It was risky. Of course HE trusted me, but his OCD brain didn’t, and that’s who I was dealing with right now. 

 

“I . . . I want to. I mean . . . I do trust you . . . but . . .”

 

“I know . . . I know it’s not that easy.” I tried giving him a reassuring smile and that’s when I knew what I had to do. I had to get his mind off what had just happened. “Hey, forget about that for a minute, okay. I’ve got more important news. Guess what I found last night when I was at that annoying Christmas party with my dad.”

 

“Huh? What?” He looked slightly calmer after even that minor distraction, like he was less likely to bolt.

 

“I think I found another clue about our Mr. Peebles and the mysterious Jay Frick,” I blurted out, hoping that my news was enough to grab his attention. “So, I got into this stupid fight with my father right off the bat - he accused me of flirting with the son of one of his business associates - which in his book is a sin worse than murder, right? - although I’d only just been politely chatting with him after he bumped into me and spilled my beer all over me. But Dad, of course, saw something nefarious in the whole thing and came over, hissing at me like an angry goose, accusing me of all sorts of shit. I mean, it’s not like we were having some hot and heavy anal intercourse right there in the middle of the Duquesne Club ballroom or anything. But Dad tends to see pretty much everything I do as some prelude to gay sex. Can you say, ‘homophobe’? I can’t call him out on it, though, because he’s the administrator on my education trust and I need to finish school, so I have to put up with the bigot no matter how pissed off I get. But anyway . . .”

 

And I continued to ramble on in that fashion for at least the next fifteen minutes. While I spoke, I could see the tension slowly draining out of Brian’s shoulders and face. It was working. He was getting caught up in my long, drawn out tale of WASP woe and totally forgetting his panic over that little taste of coffee. Go, me! Daphne would be proud!

 

“. . . And there they were in the picture. All three of them, standing side by side. Peebles, Frick and our William, or ‘Billy’ as I call him,” I finished my story with a conspiratorial wink. “What do you think? I mean, they all obviously knew each other. Do you think they might have been involved in some way?”

 

“I don’t know, Justin. Even if they did know each other - which isn’t all that surprising since Pittsburgh society was a pretty small circle of people in those days - that doesn’t mean they were anything more than social acquaintances.”

 

“Maybe . . . I don’t know why, but I feel like there’s more to it. And you gotta admit that it wouldn’t be completely unreasonable to assume that the ‘B’ Andrew wrote his love letter to might be the unmarried sportsman, William ‘Billy’ Carnegie. Am I right? And, if so, it’s possible that Jay Frick, who was Peebles’ business partner in the building and, if that picture was any indication, also a friend, might have known about it.”

 

Brian chucked. “Of course you think there’s more to it, you’re a romantic little twat.”

 

I couldn’t help but smile at that - I mean, he had a point, but, whatever. I knew I was onto something here. I was sure of it. I just didn’t know how to prove what I suspected.

 

“I wanted to tell you about it all last night, but I couldn’t. I was thinking that maybe there’d be more information about the three of them in the Club's records or something and I wanted to pick your brain on what to do next. Not that I really want to spend more time in that stuffy den of bigots, but I would if it meant we could unearth more info about our boys. Although, now that I think about it, I doubt there’d be anything much at the Duquesne Club. Those old boors would roll over in their graves if they found out one of their members was actually gay. We’re more likely to find additional information down in your basement than at the Club. In fact, I bet if we went through the books and that desk down in your secret room, we’d likely turn up a lot. Why else have a secret room, if not to store all your secrets?”

 

“The basement?” The panic that Brian had only recently started to master all of a sudden reared its ugly head again. “I don’t want to go back into the fucking basement, Justin.”

 

Oops. I forgot that he disliked the basement almost as much as he disliked germs. So much for my plan to distract him with my little mystery story. Now I had to start over from scratch on my Calm Eggy plan.

 

“We don’t have to do it NOW, of course,” I rushed to reassure him. “Besides, I can’t stay much longer today anyway. I have a shift at the Diner this afternoon. In fact, I should probably leave soon or I’ll be late.” I looked at the time display on my phone and grimaced. 

 

“You’re leaving?” Brian asked, nervously.

 

Damn. I really hadn’t thought this through. First I go and set him off by urging him to taste the coffee and then I raise all the specters of his haunted basement before abandoning him to deal with it all on his own. Nice going, Doofus. Shit, could I be more insensitive? Time for more of that distraction thing. 

 

“If you’re proposing I stay for more play time like we had yesterday, I might be willing to blow off work for you,” I suggested with a sexy leer. “Of course, then you’d have to take me on full time as my Sugar Daddy because I’ll be fired and broke. But I’m good with that plan if you are.”

 

He laughed at my little joke, and I was glad to see that it lessened his tension. “You know . . .”  Brian began but quickly stopped talking, one finger rubbing nervously over his lips. 

 

“What were you going to say?” I wasn’t going to let him chicken out on me now, not when he had something he needed to say. 

 

“I was thinking . . . what about . . . what if I gave you my number? Then you could at least message me . . . maybe . . . you know, when you’re not in breaking-in distance to my place.” He fidgeted a bit, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck and breaking eye contact as he continued. “And, who knows, I might need to send out an SOS if you’re wrong and someone does decide to come down that fucking tunnel you opened up.”

 

I could tell he was trying to make light of what he’d just suggested, so I went along with it. “That’s a great idea, Eggy. That way I can text you every time I get a naughty idea about what I’d like to do to you and that gorgeous body of yours.” ‘Cuz, yeah, it hadn’t slipped my attention that he was still only half dressed and I was less than a meter away from those delicious looking pecs. “And maybe I could even message you and let you know when I was on my way over in the future and you could unlock the door for me so I don’t have to keep breaking in. Not that I mind, you know, but eventually a cop might notice and I don't think I’d do well in prison. I’m way too cute and orange really isn’t my color.”

 

“Well, we definitely wouldn’t want to subject you to that,” he responded, latching eagerly onto the excuse I’d given him. “I don’t want to be responsible for making you into the pet of some fashion-challenged jailhouse bear.” 

 

“You’re so thoughtful,” I shook my head laughing. Sometimes we we were just on the same wavelength, you know, and it felt so good to be with someone who had the same quirky sense of humor; I love being silly with him. “Okay,” I pulled out my phone and opened a new contact for him, “shoot me your digits, Big Guy.”

 

Brian rattled off his number and then he took his own phone out of his pocket and did the same with my number. Then I kinda had to run out of there because I really was running late by that point and Deb would have my balls. But, right as I hit the first landing, Brian called out to me, causing me to stop and look back up at him with one of my biggest smiles ever.

 

“How late are you doing this working thing?” he asked.

 

“Why?”

 

“I thought . . .” he took a deep breath as if to steady his nerves and then just blurted out what he’d been planning to say. “I thought that if you’re going to be breaking in again later tonight I might as well make dinner for the both of us. Otherwise you’ll just steal my food again.”

 

“Awwww! Eggy, are you asking me to come for dinner? That’s so sweet,” I teased him, internally delighted that my man was getting bold enough to do something like asking me to come for dinner. “Does this count as our first date?”

 

He scoffed as though I had just suggested the most ridiculous thing in the world. “No, I just don’t want you interrupting my dinner and stealing shit off my plate.”

 

Yeah, right; he was SO full of it. “I finish at eight and I’ll be back here by 8:15,” I promised and then took off again, yelling over my shoulder as I descended the next flight of stairs. “Byeeee!” 

  
  


“Hey, Deb!” I hollered as I scooted around her on my way to deposit my stuff in my locker in the staff room.

 

“You’re late, Sunshine!” she screeched back.

 

“I know,” I replied, re-emerging as I tied an apron in place around my waist. “Good thing I’m not only adorable but also your favorite employee, otherwise that might be a problem.” I added one of my brattiest grins so as to make myself totally irresistible.

 

“Yeah, well, if you don’t get your adorable ass in gear and start clearing some tables, I might have to rethink that favorite employee thing,” Deb rejoined with a pretend-serious scowl. 

 

I chuckled and ducked as I trotted past her with my bus tub, effectively avoiding the friendly slap to the back of my head that she’d aimed my way.

 

We were all busy for the next hour or so, cleaning up the post-breakfast mess and starting on the pre-lunch prep work. I didn’t actually get to stop and take a breath till we hit a lull around 11:15. I sighed, grabbed myself a fortifying vanilla milkshake, and slid into the back booth so I could rest a bit before the next onslaught. While I was catching my breath, I pulled out my phone, trying to think through the wording of the first text I’d send my Egbert.

 

“Whatcha smiling about over there, Sunshine? “ Deb smirked as she plonked herself down across from me at the booth where I was sitting. “You’re sunnier than usual today.”

 

“What are you talking about?” I asked around my mouthful of milkshake. 

 

“Don’t play dumb with me, kiddo. You’ve met someone. I know these things. Call it mother’s intuition.”

 

“You’re not my mother,” Justin laughed. 

 

“I’m someone’s mother.”

 

I loved Deb. She’s completely crazy and hands down the nosiest person I know. She also has a heart the size of an Elephant’s schlong. 

 

“I MAY have met someone,” I grinned; I couldn’t believe I was that obvious. 

 

“We have about five minutes before I have to get my butt back to work.”

 

I looked at her over my straw, canting one eyebrow inquisitively. 

 

“That means you have five minutes to tell me everything. Go!”

 

I spent the next couple of minutes filling her in about my Eggbert -  I didn’t want to tell her everything, but shared enough with her that she was happy. It felt so good to brag about him to someone besides Daphne for a change. Almost like it made the whole thing more real once I’d said it aloud. 

 

“So when are we gonna meet this paragon of manly attributes?” Deb asked. “I need to make sure he’s good enough for our Sunshine, you know.”

 

“That may be problematic,” I replied, trying to think of a way to delay Deb without revealing Brian’s whole hermit thing - I didn’t want to betray his confidences by discussing his agoraphobia and OCD issues. 

 

“He’s not a closet case, is he? Because you should know better than to get involved with someone who isn’t yet comfortable enough with himself to show his face to the world. After all you’ve gone through with your father and everything, Sunshine, you need someone just as brave and out there as you are . . .”

 

“Don’t worry. He’s not a closet case, Deb.” I had to stop her before she continued her rant - did I mention she was one of the most passionate people I know? “He’s just . . .” What could I say to satisfy Deb long enough to get her off my back? “He’s just not really into the gayborhood scene.” There, that was vague enough, right? 

 

Thankfully, right then the cook dinged his bell and hollered for Deb to come pick up the bunless burger for the customer waiting at table three and I was saved from further need to explain my not-yet-relationship with Egbert. 

 

While Deb was bustling around, I quietly sipped at my milkshake and contemplated how to word my first text to my hermit. That might not sound like a deep, weighty consideration to some, but I was definitely feeling the pressure. I mean, I wanted to totally wow him without coming across as either too pushy or too needy. Sexting is an artform, you know, and you have to set the right tone from the very start. And, no, I wasn’t overthinking things, thank you very much. I simply have standards.

 

After using up five more minutes of my precious break time, I finally settled on a simple: ‘Hey, Handsome. I’m thinking about you while HARD at work. How’s your day going so far?’

 

Okay, I admit, it may not have been the most brilliant work of literature ever written, but how eloquent can you be via text. Am I right? At least I got all the required elements in: flattery, humor, and sexual innuendo. Sheesh, I’d like to see anybody else do better within the limits of the medium. 

 

Seeing as my break was almost over and the beginnings of the lunch crowd were trickling in, though, I didn’t have time to rethink it and merely hit ‘send’ 

 

Within seconds my phone beeped, indicating I had a new message. I quickly pulled my phone out of my pocket and clicked to open it. 

 

‘How HARD are you working, Justin? Tell me.’

 

I smiled stupidly to myself as I read Brian’s reply. 

 

‘HARD enough that I broke into a sweat,’ I typed back almost instantly, chuckling under my breath as I wondered how he’d respond.

 

Clearly my Egbert was in a cheeky mood and that was absolutely fine with me. I had been nervous about leaving him after his slight freak out earlier, but he seemed to be doing okay by the sound of things. I really needed to get back to work, but since Deb seemed to have the current customers in hand, I decided to quickly duck into the restroom for a few minute more of Eggy Time. By the time I had locked myself into a cubicle, Brian had replied - this time he had sent me a picture message. My heart beat rapidly in my chest as I opened it, wondering what on earth he could have sent me. 

 

When I opened the pic, it turned out to be a closeup of Brian’s hand. That wasn’t a biggie. Of course, the fact that he was holding an already torn open condom packet, kinda was. What a naughty boy my Eggy was today. 

  
  


‘As you can see, I’m also hard at work,’ the text below the picture read.

 

Knowing exactly what my man was gonna be doing with that condom, brought back flashes of our joint jerkoff session. My dick responded immediately, in predictable ways, and I knew I was going to have to take care of my little problem before going back to work. No way could I go out there like this, not with the way my pants were tenting, I would be eaten alive by the lunch crowd. Deb’s rule about ‘No Masturbating During Breaks’ be damned. This was an emergency!

 

So I quickly unzipped and took matters into hand, so to speak, visions of Brian fueling my momentum. I briefly contemplated sending my guy a photo of myself, in case he needed some inspiration of his own, but I knew it was probably too soon for that. We weren’t quite at the dick-pic stage of our acquaintanceship yet. So, no matter how badly I wanted to do it, I held back. Instead, I managed, awkwardly with my left hand, to scroll through the emojis list and send him back a silly pictographic message:

  
  
  


After that, though, my brain short circuited and I wasn’t able to think any coherent thoughts for a good three or four minutes. And don’t even think about giving me shit for only lasting three minutes - if you’d seen the magnificent cock my man had, you wouldn’t last long either. Just knowing that he was touching himself, right then, at the same exact time I was stroking my own dick, even though we weren’t in the same room . . . well, you get the picture. Fuck, I’m surprised I didn’t go off like a squirt gun in the hands of a trigger-happy toddler. In fact, lasting for three minutes might be considered commendable restraint under the circumstances.

 

And it was a good thing I’d been quick, too. I was still standing there, panting, with my pants drooping off my hips, when the door to the restroom suddenly swung open and Deb’s loud voice echoed around the small room. I was so startled I almost toppled over into the toilet.

 

“Break’s over, Sunshine. Wash your hands and get back to work. There’s a time and a place for self love and work ain’t it.” 

 

I could hear the whole diner laughing as the door swung shut. 

 

“Shit,” I mumbled under my breath as I shuffled out of the stall with my pants strangling my knees, washed the cum off my hand, and pulled my pants up.

 

When I emerged from the toilet into the Diner proper, I actually got a standing ovation. Guess I’d been a little too vocal in my enthusiasm back there. I wasn’t sure if I should be proud or embarrassed, actually, so I just smiled, waved to my fans and tried to pretend it was cool to have such fair skin that my blushing turned my face a bright magenta. Deb merely rolled her eyes and pointed me over to the newly arrived table of customers in the second-to-last booth. 

 

I followed directions, tying on a fresh apron and pulling my order pad out of my apron pocket as I approached the table of regulars. They all welcomed me with smiles, making jokes about my bathroom antics in a friendly way, which did nothing to alleviate my blushing. I was used to it though, so no biggie. Getting heckled, teased and having my ass fondled was part and parcel of the job when you worked at a gay Diner - and I knew without a doubt my little performance would probably get me some great tips, which I was always in favor of.

 

“About time you got around to taking our order,” Michael - Deb’s adult son - fake-growled at me when I finally got to him. “If the job’s too tough, you know, I’m sure some of us wouldn’t mind lending you a hand . . .” 

 

Predictably, Michael held out his hand to me, palm up, but then when I smiled, his gesture turned into a fist which he pumped a couple times in a lewd fashion. The rest of the table snickered like little boys and I rolled my eyes but laughed along, because who among us doesn’t like a good hand-job joke, right? I don’t care how old they get, gay boys never outgrow that sophomoric sense of humor.

 

“As thoughtful as your offer was,” I teased back, “I think I’m good. But thank you.”

 

Emmett, one of Michael’s closest friends, reached over and gave me a gentle poke in my side. “From what we all heard, Honey, you definitely did good. VERY, very good, indeed. And I bet, if you told people that you hadn’t washed your hands afterwards, your tips would quadruple. You go, baby.”

 

“I’m pretty sure that would violate about a dozen health code regulations,” the oldest one of the bunch, Ted, chimed in, his face scrunched up in a grimace of disgust. “Not to mention it’s just plain bad hygiene.”

 

“I washed. I promise.” I reassured them all, holding out my clean hands as evidence. 

 

“What I want to know is, what brought on such an Oscar-worthy performance,” Emmett pressed nosily. “It certainly wasn’t the lunch menu offerings.” 

 

“Justin’s got a new hottie on the hook,” Deb butted in as she hustled past with an overloaded tray full of food. 

 

“Well, whoever he is, he must be dreamy,” Emmett added with a wink in my direction, “if that’s what was inspiring you.”

 

I felt myself blushing yet again. “Yeah, he is.”

 

“Ooooo - do tell!” Em insisted, clapping his hands joyously as he prepared for some juicy gossip. “Who is he? Do we know him? How big is his cock? Can I borrow him when you’re done? Tell us EVERYTHING!”

 

“No. I’m not sharing with you degenerates,” I replied, looking at them sternly. “I’m not letting any of you get within a hundred yards of my sweet, innocent, Eggy. You’d corrupt him.”

 

“This sounds serious,” Ted commented with an appraising look. “Could it be that our lusty little gayling has found ‘the one’?”

 

Just then my phone pinged again and, partly because I didn’t know how to respond to the guys’ teasing, I used that as an out so that I could look at my phone instead of their jeering faces. I was happy to see that it was another picture text from the very man we’d been discussing. A quick swipe to open the app and I saw a picture of Egbert’s desk with the open computer sitting atop it. The text below read: ‘And now back to the real work.’

  
  


“OMG! Look at that smile! It’s from HIM, isn’t it?” Emmett gushed, trying to grab hold of my phone so he could see what I was looking at. 

 

“Wow, Em’s right. You really do have it bad, Boy Wonder,” Michael agreed. “Looks like our little Justin has been bitten by the Love Bug. So, when’s the wedding?”

 

“I think I’d make a lovely June Bride, don’t you?” I replied, cocking my head to the side and batting my eyelashes at them all while giving my most angelic smile. 

 

“If you don’t hurry up, take their order, and get back to work, you’re going to have to find another job to help you pay for that wedding, Sunshine. Get a move on already,” Deb ordered as the bell over the front door chimed, welcoming yet another group of diners. 

 

“You’re no fun, Deb,” I rejoined, but then proceeded to follow her directions anyway, silently thanking her for getting me out of answering any more questions about my mysterious lover boy.

********  
  
[I Send A Message by INXS](https://youtu.be/oq3M-nKaZHI). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We realize that in real life Exposure Therapy takes months, if not years, to get a patient to the stage Brian’s at here, but we’re asking you to engage your suspension of disbelief and just go with it for now... How do you like sexy, brash Justin, huh? TAG & Sally
> 
> PS. Just a reminder, we tend to include a lot of pictures in our stories but AO3 isn't the best platform to add them, so if you want to see the chapter with pics included, please check out the story on our home site: KinnetikDreams.com


	18. Spoke Too Soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Eggy & The Brat are back and up to more hijinx. Enjoy! TAG & Sally

  
  
  


Chapter 18 - Spoke Too Soon.

  
  


I couldn’t help but look at my watch, surely it was almost eight? This day felt like it had gone on forever. And my feet were starting to hurt, too. 

 

“Don’t fret, kiddo, your shift’s up in two,” Debbie grinned as she chomped loudly on her bright pink gum. There was nothing subtle about this woman. “Make yourself useful and empty the last of those lemon bars into a bag so I can refill the display.”

 

I shrugged and did as I was told, although I was a little confused since we almost never emptied the display stand before restocking - we probably should, but whatever. 

 

“What do you want me to do with these?” I asked, waving the bag of deliciously moist lemony bars in the air. 

 

“Take ‘em home and share them with that mystery man of yours,” she beamed. “If he’s as skinny as you, I have my work cut out fattening you both up.”

 

I rolled my eyes but in my heart I still secretly appreciated her efforts to mother me. Debbie was obsessed with feeding ‘her boys’ and making sure everyone’s body fat was a little more than they’d like. She’d claim it was her Italian roots and that there was nothing she could do about it. But, if you wanted to live a happy life, you took whatever she gave you and ate it without too much complaining. 

 

Just as I was putting the bars into my bag, my phone beeped, indicating I had a message. I could feel myself smiling before I’d even read what it said. My heart flippidy-flopped as I saw Brian’s name on my home screen. The message was from him as I had hoped. 

 

‘You eat yet?’

 

Short and sweet was my man. 

 

Before I had the chance to answer, Debbie was pinching my cheek - and, sadly, not the one on my face. “Go home, you’re done for the day.”

 

“Thanks, Deb.”

 

“No, thank you. Your little  _ show _ at lunch kept us all nice and busy. The place was full of hungry fags . . . and I don't care that they were probably hoping and praying for a second performance, as long as it kept ‘em ordering.” She rubbed her fingers together and threw her head back laughing. “Your ASS is one of the Diner’s best assets!”

 

I cracked up even as my cheeks - the one’s on my face this time - started to overheat. It was definitely time to go. Deb was getting delirious after having worked for over fourteen hours. If I stayed much longer, who knows what she’d be pinching next.

 

“Thanks, Deb, byeee.” I slung my bag over my shoulder and practically ran out of the diner. 

 

It was then that my phone beeped again. 

  
  


‘Because if you haven’t, this is waiting for you. No fancy sandwich to go with it though.’

 

Brian was asking me to dinner! And I was so fucking beside myself with joy it was ridiculous. We had briefly talked about it before I left, and I even teased him a little, but I hadn’t been sure if he was serious or not. Clearly he was. I quickly texted back. 

 

‘Getting the bus to yours now. See you in 15. I’m so hungry I can’t wait. Om nom nom.’

 

I got a reply back almost instantly. 

 

‘What the actual fuck does om nom nom mean?’

 

I chuckled. Why the fuck did I have to try so hard to be cute? Now I felt even more silly having to explain.

 

‘It’s an eating noise . . . I guess it kinda means delicious as well.’

 

Oh well, he probably already thinks I’m nuts. 

 

‘You’re weird. See you soon.’

 

I didn’t have time to text him back as my bus arrived right then and I stuffed my phone in my pocket so I could jump aboard. It was only a few stops from the Diner to my Eggy’s building, and I probably could have run it almost as fast as the bus got there, but then I would have been all sweaty and out of breath and, trust me, if I was going to get sweaty with my man it wasn’t going to be because I was jogging through the streets looking like an extra from Marathon Man. Although, as I took a seat in the very back of the bus and got a whiff of myself, I thought maybe I should have opted for that run. As it was, I stunk like the stale grease from the fryer vat at the Diner; not a perfume that I thought my OCD boyfriend would likely approve of. Maybe Eggy would let me take a shower at his place as soon as I arrived? Maybe I could talk him into taking a shower WITH me even? I mean, he couldn’t be afraid of me and my germs if we were in the process of washing those germs off, could he? But then, the more I thought about it, the more I figured that OCD probably didn’t work like that. A guy could dream, though, right? And there wasn’t anything more enticing than the idea of a dripping wet Eggy . . .

 

My fantasies of showering with Brian kept me busy the rest of the bus ride. When I did climb down the steps across the street from the familiar Triangle Building, I was practically desperate to see my man, french fry smell or no. I darted across the street without waiting for the light to change and had to dodge a delivery truck that almost ran me over. The driver didn’t seem mollified by the sunshiney smile I offered by way of apology, but I didn’t care. I just loped the rest of the way across the street and over to the lobby door. 

 

And guess what? This time, the door wasn’t locked! Instead, there was a post-it note stuck to the inside of the glass that read, ‘Burglarizing Brats Welcome. (Lock the fuck up behind you!)’

 

Now this was progress!

 

I know that the smile on my face probably stretched from ear to ear as I pulled open the door and jauntily walked inside, flipping the latch to relock the door behind me. I felt like a million fucking bucks. I was IN! My man was letting me inside, and not only into his building but, I hoped, into his heart. Damn I was good!

 

I took my time marching up the stairs to Eggy’s top floor aerie, however, because I didn’t want to come off all smug when I got there, no matter how ecstatic I felt. When I did knock on the door to his rooms, I heard a muted cursing and then a rattling crash as if something metal had been tossed into a porcelain sink. This was alarming enough that I didn’t wait to be invited into the room and immediately reached for the handle to let myself in. 

 

The scene I found when the door swung open was enough to cause me to snort with laughter despite how hard I was trying to hold it back. My Stylite was standing in front of the sink, cursing at the fixture as he ran water over his hand. He was sweaty and looked like he’d been anxiously running his hands through his damp hair, causing large clumps to stand on end. The air stunk of burned tomatoes. Right as he turned to look over at me with the most woebegone look you can imagine, the smoke detector over his head went off, breaking our eardrums with it’s complaining wail. 

 

“Oh, Eggy, what have you done?” I tried to sound sympathetic but I think some of my amusement at the situation came through anyway. 

 

Brian glared at me. He took his hand out from under the water and wrapped it in a towel, but not before I’d seen that at least two of his fingers had angry-looking red burn marks on them. I quickly dashed over to the window, cracking it open and flapping my arms to try and wave in some cool, fresh air, in an attempt to get the smoke detector to shut up. 

 

When the din finally abated, my poor Egbert looked over at me with a guilty expression and said, “did I mention that I don’t really cook?”

 

“You did, but I didn’t know the reason was because you’re a fire hazard,” I replied. I walked over to the sink and noted that the pot he’d been using to try and heat the soup was crusted with a nasty looking layer of blacked tomato gunk on the bottom that the water hadn’t managed to soak off yet. “I’ve never seen somebody burn canned soup before.”

 

Brian gave me this annoyed look that almost covered up his embarrassment. “I thought I’d have more time before you got here, but when you texted and said you’d be here in fifteen minutes, I turned the heat up, and then . . . I was only gone for five fucking minutes while I changed clothes.”

 

I started to remove my jacket and set it along with my bag on Brian‘s one kitchen stool. “Okay . . . Rule of thumb for future cooking attempts: never turn the burners on ‘high’ except for when you’re just flat out boiling water. For everything else you should keep the dial below ‘medium high’. Also, never walk away and leave anything cooking on the stove.”

 

Brian huffed a huge breath of defeat and slumped sideways against the edge of the counter, but he didn’t say anything further. Meanwhile, I quickly got to work digging into his fridge. Luckily, there was still a loaf of bread and some cheese left over from our earlier dinner. I pulled his seldom used frying pan out from the cupboard and then made my way to the sink where I conspicuously washed both the pan and my hands under Brian’s careful supervision.

 

“Now, step back, and let the master take over,” I teased, making sure he could tell from my smile that I wasn’t being judgmental. 

 

The next half hour passed by quite pleasantly. The two of us worked together to wrangle together a replacement dinner without any more crises. Brian did his little cleaning rituals without really interfering in my cooking much. I let him do his thing but at the same time I tried not to coddle him too much. Mostly it worked without my poor Eggy getting too anxious. Did I mention how proud I was of my man? He was making such progress! From what Daphne had said to me, it sounded like this ERT stuff would be a long hard slog, but my Egbert was barreling into it with more enthusiasm than I’d ever dared hope. At this rate we’d be doing the nasty right there on the kitchen table in no time . . . Yeah, right! Okay, memo to self: rein in those unrealistic expectations. For the moment, though, it didn’t matter, and I was just happy to be spending time with my Sexy Stylite.

 

As we nibbled on our gooey, cheesy sandwiches, Brian filled me in on his efforts to wrap up the project he’d been working on for that new software application. It looked like it was going back for a third workshopping attempt. Then I told him some of the highlights of my day at the Diner. He seemed to enjoy my descriptions of the patrons and all the gossip from the Gayborhood. We were both laughing by the time I popped the last bite of sandwich into my gob. 

 

Which is when it occurred to me just how odd we must look; the two of us chatting and laughing as we related stories about our days other over a casual dinner. The familiar way we were smiling at each other over the coffee table where we’d set up the meal. How comfortable this all felt . . . And it struck me that we’d somehow become a COUPLE. 

 

Like, WOW! I mean, it’s not like I minded or anything, but I just hadn’t expected anything like this. I hadn't been looking for a relationship. And, despite the way I’d jokingly referred to Brian in my own head as my ‘boyfriend’, even I hadn’t thought I was seriously considering such an outcome. We hadn’t even kissed, let alone fucked, and I’d never before had a boyfriend that I hadn’t thoroughly vetted in the bedroom before I’d agreed to date him. But here we were and it looked like, somehow, we’d skipped right over that whole part and moved on to the quiet evenings home alone together stage.

 

To paraphrase the Talking Heads, ‘My God, how did I get here?’

 

Was this what I wanted? I mean, yeah, Brian was fucking gorgeous, and he did have that ‘I need to be saved’ vibe that I’d always been a sucker for, and I was uber attracted to him in about every way imaginable, but was I really ready for what getting involved with someone like Eggy would entail? Was I biting off way more than I could chew here? And was I serious about a relationship with someone I couldn’t even touch? 

 

Before I could completely freak out about this scary revelation, however, the man I was freaking over spoke up and disrupted my panic. “So, with all this going on, how did you manage to find time to text me with that naughty suggestion?” Brian asked, looking at me from under his bushy eyebrows with a flirty glint in his entrancing hazel eyes. 

 

And just like that, all my plans to blow a gasket simply evaporated. Because, my Eggy might not be your typical boyfriend, and maybe it would take us a while longer to get to a point where we could act on all those fantasies of mine, but in the meantime what we did have was delicious and fun and more than enough to keep me intrigued. So what the fuck was I worrying about? Calm yourself, Taylor. Can you say, ‘Drama Queen’? 

 

“Oh, I made time for more than just texting you,” I confessed to my flirty companion. “After you sent me back that response, I was so hot and bothered that I had to take a break in the washroom and . . . shall we say, relieve the tension . . .” Brian broke out laughing with an exuberance that I didn't think he often displayed, something which was more than enough to encourage me. “I should probably thank you for that, too. If it hadn’t been for your text - and the fact that I was apparently a little too vocal in my appreciation of the resulting break I took - I’m pretty sure my tips would have been a lot lighter today. As it was, I totally cleaned up.” I fished in my pocket and came out with the ridiculously large wad of bills that I’d walked away with as my take of the tips for the day, getting another roar of hilarity out of my naughty accomplice. “It was worth the teasing I had to take; although my boss did get a little annoyed at me. Deb has this strict ‘No Masturbating On Break’ rule and all. But as soon as I told her about my sexy new love interest, she cut me some slack. Deb’s a die-hard romantic at heart. In fact, she sent me home with this and made me promise to share with you . . .”

 

I leaned back and reached over the back of the couch, stretching until I could reach my bag, and then excavated the bag of lemon bars out of its depths. The overwhelming scent of citrus erupted into the air the second I pulled open the bag, filling the room with a sweet tartness that made my mouth water. Brian seemed just as captivated by the aroma; I could see his nose twitching amid the confines of his bushy beard. I availed myself of one of the paper napkins stacked on the edge of the table and used that to extract one of the yummy treats from the bag, setting it on the edge of Brian’s almost pristinely clean plate before getting a second lemon bar for myself. Now came the tough part - trying to convince OCD Man to try a bite. 

 

“Deb’s always complaining about how skinny I am and she basically ordered me to eat these,” I explained as I put two of the dessert treats on my own plate. “If she knew how undernourished you were, she’d probably be over here with a metric fuck ton of pasta until she was satisfied you were fattened up sufficiently. So, unless you want to suffer a slow death by ziti, I suggest you eat up now.” 

 

I pointed towards the lemon bar waiting on his plate and smiled hopefully. I was trying not to push too much, while at the same time nudging at Brian’s boundaries the way Daphne had suggested. I wasn’t sure if it would work though. He was just sitting there, staring at the damned plate as if he thought the lemony treat was likely to jump up and attack him. I could see him biting at his bottom lip hard enough that I almost worried he’d break the skin. Meanwhile, the tension the situation was causing was evident by the way his right leg was jittering and bouncing in place. I wished there was some way I could help him through this, but knew it was a battle he had to wage alone against himself. All I could do was offer him ways to keep pushing at those self-imposed boundaries and be there to support him through the struggle.

 

“It smells good,” the poor conflicted man ventured hesitantly. “What is it?”

 

“A homemade lemon bar. Deb’s personal recipe, even. Ramone, the cook at the Diner where I work, makes them daily. They’re a big hit with the customers, so you should be honored that Deb let me abscond with these few,” I answered, trying to make it all sound even more appetizing. “You should try it, Eggy. I bet it’s almost as sweet as you are.”

 

He snorted at my teasing statement and shook his head, but his eyes never left his fucking plate the whole time. Finally, I watched as he reached out and picked up his fork, extending the utensil towards the yummy, sugary, treat. I held my breath, trying to contain my hope. The fork hovered indecisively over the lemon bar for a good sixty seconds. 

 

“I . . . *phew* . . . It looks delicious . . .” Brian took a deep breath and then the fork descended to spear just the tiniest little triangle off the corner of the bar. He lifted the fork back up so that it was just a couple of centimeters from his face and inhaled again. “Probably has about a billion calories, though.”

 

“That teeny little bite you have there? No way. That tiny taste doesn’t even count,” I assured him. Hoping to provide an example of sorts, I picked up the first of my own bars and took a huge bite that devoured almost a third of the whole. “Mmmmm. You know what, I don’t care how fattening these things are. They’re worth it.”

 

I saw Brian licking his lips as he watched me eat my own dessert and I could tell that he wanted this so badly it was almost killing him. Finally, as I popped the last of my own treat in my mouth, smacking my lips dramatically as I finished swallowing and then ostentatiously licked a last crumb from the corner of my mouth, he seemed to come to a decision. With a noticeable straightening of his spine, he moved the fork the rest of the distance to his lips and opened wide. I wanted to cheer but restrained myself - just barely. Egbert quickly swallowed that itsy-bitsy piece of cake and then immediately set his fork down. He looked like he was about to panic. 

 

Time for the patented Taylor Distraction Techniques.

 

“So, how many condoms did you go through this afternoon after you sent me that picture?” I asked, seizing on the first thing I thought of which might work to keep Brian from dwelling too much on the momentousness of what he’d just done. “Personally, I only had time for that one, way too quick, ‘break’, which wasn’t nearly as satisfying as you’d expect seeing as Deb walked in on me at the end and ordered me back to work - sometimes I think that woman likes checking out the men’s room way too much, you know? - and I was pretty much hard the entire rest of the afternoon. I mean, how was I expected to concentrate on work with that? Knowing you were back here, doing what you were doing, over and over again . . . You’re totally distracting, you know that right?”

 

“I think you’re the one who’s distracting,” Brian surmised with an uncharacteristically shy smile. “I appreciate the effort, Justin.” 

 

It didn’t escape my notice that he’d moved the plate containing the rest of his lemon bar further away from him as he spoke. Oh well, he’d done amazingly well just trying that one taste, so I wasn’t about to criticize. I was ridiculously proud of him for even that one attempt. We were definitely making progress.

 

“Any time, Big Guy. That’s what I’m here for . . . Well, that, and because I’m in love with your mysterious building and all it’s tantalizing secrets. Cuz, c’mon, where else am I gonna get my secret tunnel fix, huh?”

 

“Ugh. Don’t remind me,” Brian complained with a new frown.

 

“You mean to tell me you haven’t been just dying to go explore that secret tunnel?” I prodded. “Seriously? It’s, like, the kind of adventure you’d read about in a book or something. If it were me, I’d be itching to get down there. And now that dinner’s over . . . Whaddaya say? Are you up for some adventuring?”

 

“Yeah . . . I don’t think so, Brat.” Brian sighed and looked at me with this horribly pained expression that made my heart hurt. “I don’t think I can do it, Justin. I just . . . I had enough trouble going down there BEFORE I knew that there was a fucking tunnel to nowhere in my damned basement. But now . . .” I could see the way his breathing had sped up and the renewed jittering of his bouncing knee was an obvious clue to his heightening anxieties. “I don’t think I can go down there again.”

 

“No problem, Big Guy. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. I’m perfectly happy going exploring on my own.”

 

“But . . .” I could see that Brian was struggling with that idea almost as much as he’d been with the proposition of him going back to the basement himself. “I don’t like the idea of you being down there by yourself, Justin. What if something happened to you? We don’t know where the fuck that damn tunnel leads. Anything could happen to you down there . . .”

 

I tried not to laugh at his catastrophizing but, to my mind at least, his worries seemed silly. “I’ll be fine, Brian. I mean, you saw that tunnel. Nobody’s been down there for decades. What could possibly happen?”

 

“That’s the problem,” Brian insisted. “You don’t have any idea what could happen. Especially if no one's been down there to make sure it’s safe in as long as you claim. Hell, the fucking tunnel could collapse and then what would you do?” 

 

“Why would the tunnel collapse the minute I go down there when it’s been fine for, like, a hundred years already?”

 

“I don’t know. But knowing my luck . . .”

 

I tried to stop myself but couldn’t - my eyes rolled back in exasperation - causing Brian to growl softly in the back of his throat. 

 

“Okay. Okay. I get it. I disagree that there’s any likelihood that the fucking ceiling will collapse or that I’ll run into invaders coming through the tunnel, but I understand that you’re not comfortable with me going down there. So, how about . . .” I pulled out my phone and tapped at the screen for a few seconds until I got to the app I wanted. “How about you join me . . . remotely?” I pushed the last button necessary to make the connection I was aiming for and heard Brian’s phone - which was in his jeans pocket - start to ring. 

 

Brian pulled the phone out and looked at the screen with distrust. 

 

“Accept the damn call already, Eggy,” I prompted with a bratty grin.

 

Brian tapped at the button on his phone screen and all of a sudden I could see a close up version of his face on the screen of my own phone. “See . . . It’s the best of both worlds, Eggy. Now you can stay up here, safe and secure, and still watch while I go exploring. How’s that?”

 

Brian took a moment to examine the picture on his phone and then smiled at me. “I suppose that might work.”

 

“Hoorah!” I cheered, getting up from my comfy seat on his couch and enthusiastically trotting over towards the door. “Alright! Let’s go exploring!”

 

Brian shook his head, silently commenting on my over the top fervor for adventure, but he didn’t try to stop me. He simply pointed me towards the keys to the basement which lived on a hook by the door, and I grabbed them before exiting. I trotted down the stairs, holding my phone right in front of my face so he wouldn’t lose contact with me for even a second while I did my thing. I could see his face on my screen at the same time, an inscrutable look on his face, as if he was withholding judgment on the advisability of this proceeding. 

 

“I’m almost down to the lobby now,” I announced when I reached the first floor. “Unlocking the pizza place door. You know, you really should find some new tenants for these retail spots. I mean, a pizza place in here would be primo. Especially when you burn my dinner. Not that I’m at all opposed to grilled cheese, mind you, but if I had to choose between grilled cheese sandwiches and pizza, I’m thinking pizza would win, hands down.” I knew I was babbling, but what the fuck, it was better than dead air, right? “Unlocking the basement door now. And here we go down the stairs.”

 

“I don’t need to know your every fucking move, Justin,” Brian complained. “I can see what you’re doing, you know.”

 

“Right. Sorry. Just trying to make sure you’re not worrying,” I teased and then went right back to my running narrative. “Descending the basement stairs now. Wow, it’s dark down here. Where’s that light switch again? Did you hide it on me to try and get me to stay out of your basement, Eggy?” 

 

“It’s on the fucking wall where it always was, you nutcase.”

 

“Oh . . . right . . . there we go.” Brian’s face lit up brighter as soon as I found the lights and the reflection from the screen bounced off his countenance. “Okay, now we’re cooking.” I trotted across the expanse of the basement till I came up to the false wall at the western end. “Magic brick, do your trick.” I pushed the brick that acted as a door latch until the unmistakable double click of the internal mechanism had sounded and the fake wall-door swung open. “And we’re in!” I had to juggle my phone into my other hand so I could use my flashlight with my right hand. “So, what are we going to call this place? Eggy’s Lair? The Triangle Tryst Room? Oh, wait, I’ve got it: Peebles’ Peep Hole!”

 

“I thought you were supposed to be exploring the fucking tunnel, not trying out your future stand up routine, Sunshine.”

 

“I can do both, can’t I?” I laughed as I moved across the room towards the tunnel entrance. “Hang on a sec - I’ve got to put you down while I move this damn chest of drawers out of the way.”

 

I laid my phone down on a side table, meaning that, for a moment, all Brian would be able to see was the dimly lit, sagging plaster ceiling. Then I concentrated on shifting the heavy piece of furniture away from the exit door. For some reason the stupid dresser seemed heavier than it had when I’d pushed it over there in the first place. Finally, with an embarrassingly loud grunt, I managed to shift the thing a foot or two, enough so I’d be able to squeeze through the door.

 

“What was that? Are you okay?” Brian’s worried voice echoed around the room.

 

I rushed back over to grab my phone so that my charming worrywort boyfriend could see that I was fine. “It’s nothing. I just had a bit of trouble moving that big dresser. It’s all good.”

 

“Remind me again why, exactly, you have to do this?” Brian complained.

 

“Because I’m annoying and a brat and I can’t bear to let any mystery go unsolved?”

 

“Right. Stupid stray burglars . . .”

 

“Yep. We’re worse than stray cats - that’s already been established - but that’s why you love me,” I suggested boldly. “If it weren’t for me, though, you wouldn’t be having this amazing virtual adventure. So, let’s do this thing, huh?”

 

Brian whined a little but didn’t bother saying anything, probably because he knew that nothing would stop a determined sneak thief like me. I smiled once more into the camera of the phone and then quickly switched the camera angle so that Brian would be seeing what I was seeing in front of me rather than just my handsome mug. Then I grabbed hold of the doorknob and pulled open the entrance to the tunnel. 

 

If anything, the tunnel was darker than it had been the previous time I’d looked down its lengths. Since it was night already, there wasn’t any light trickling down from the sidewalk skylight so there was virtually no illumination other than what was coming from my flashlight. With all the dark shadows and shit, the tunnel looked more sinister than tempting today. Maybe I was succumbing a bit to Brian’s morbid worries? But I told myself not to be a silly sissy and stepped over the threshold, into the unknown. 

 

“Shit. It’s fucking dark down there. Are you sure this can’t wait till it’s at least daylight?” Brian asked, sounding even more troubled.

 

“I’m fine, Brian. I’ve got my trusty flashlight. Besides a little darkness never hurt anyone, right?” I offered, trying to placate him. 

 

Of course, just as I was saying that while smiling down at Brian’s anxious face on my phone screen instead of looking at where I was going, my foot caught on a jagged piece of plaster and brickwork that had fallen from the ceiling and I tripped. I dropped both the phone and the flashlight, putting my hands out to try and block my fall. I think I might have yelled out a ‘Shit!” or some similar curse at my idiotic clumsiness. And then it all went dark as I hit the ground with a hard lurch and my head knocked against the hard brick of the tunnel wall. 

  
**********

Chapter Music Selection -  [ Spoke Too Soon by Molina ](https://youtu.be/vdqn1jAp-vs) . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave you on that cliff, guys. Gotta keep you wanting more, tho, right? Lol. *wink* TAG & Sally


	19. Touch Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to get you all down off that last cliff . . . in a very pleasant way! Enjoy! TAG & Sally

 

Chapter 19 - Touch Me.

  
  


“Wake up, damn it! Justin! Would you fucking wake up already? You stupid fucking stray burglar. Just fucking wake up!”

 

Someone cursing me out was the first thing I became aware of.

 

“Noooo . . .” I shook off the hand that was relentlessly tapping at my shoulder. “I don’t wanna go to school,” I heard myself mumble, which was quickly followed by loud laughing that hurt my ears. 

 

“Fucking hell, Justin.” There was that voice again. 

 

At first the voice sounded like it was coming from far away and the words were all distorted so it was difficult to understand the meaning behind the sounds, but gradually the syllables became clearer and coalesced into actual speech. At about the same time, I noticed that something was jostling my body. I could feel two bands of warmth wrapped around my torso and arms, holding me in place but also sort of shaking me a little. The shaking part kinda annoyed me. How was a guy supposed to get any sleep with all that noise and shaking and shit? After a few more minutes of this, though, when the cursing and shaking still hadn’t let up, I decided I was going to have to wake up enough to tell whoever it was to fuck off. 

 

“Get off . . . Leave me alone . . . Go ‘way . . .” I complained, trying unsuccessfully to bat away whomever was pawing at me. “Shhh! Sleeping here . . . Fuck off.”

 

“Don’t be a twat! You are NOT sleeping in the fucking disgusting tunnel that, knowing my luck, leads to Narnia or somewhere equally messed up. Now, wake the fuck up so we can get the hell out of here,” the voice demanded, adding another rather insistent shake to emphasize its words.

 

It seemed that I was going to have to open my eyes so I could see what the hell was going on and why this voice was being so annoying. So I did. Only it didn’t help very much because where I was lying was pretty dark so I couldn’t really see much. Down by my feet there was a small amount of light, but it was pointing in the wrong direction so it really didn’t illuminate anything much. I blinked a couple of times, trying to clear my vision more, and thankfully my eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness. Which is when I finally realized who it was that the voice belonged to. 

 

“Hey, Eggy,” I greeted the voice’s owner who was, right then, hovering over me looking a bit worried. “Um, is there a reason you’re yelling at me? Did I forget to close the toilet seat or something? And why did you turn off all the lights in here?”

 

“Fucking, stupid, delusional twats . . .” he continued to grumble and curse at me, the angry words offset by a small, worried smile, that completely belied the harsh tone. 

 

I watched as my Eggy bent over and reached towards the one dim source of light, picking it up and revealing that it had been coming from a flashlight that was laying on the ground. Once he’d picked the thing up, the illumination expanded exponentially and I could not only see my immediate surroundings better but also Brian’s face. He did not look at all pleased. Behind a beard that was even more of a rat’s nest than usual, his face was all frowny and there was a tic that was making the tiny muscles next to his left eye spasm. Whatever I’d done to piss him off must have been really bad to cause my poor Eggy to be this upset. Whoops.

 

At least the shaking stopped when Brian moved. And that’s when I finally realized that the warm bands wrapped around my body were actually Brian’s arms; arms which had been holding me as he tried to shake me awake. Hmmm. That part had been pretty nice, actually. I liked having Egbert arms holding me. He was all snugly. Mmm. 

 

But wait, why did that sound like something that shouldn’t be happening? 

 

Oh, yeah. We didn’t do the touching thing, did we? So then, why was I being graced with all this glorious physical contact? Did I win the OCD lottery or something? Lucky me. I’d even be happy to go back to the annoying shaking if I got to keep with the touching thing. But if we were, indeed, doing the touching thing now, I wasn’t going to settle for just a hug or two. I was going for the full meal deal.

 

“Mmmm. Nice. Warm . . .” Without even thinking I reached up and pulled that magnificently hairy face down until I could reach his lips where they nestled amid the wooliness of that crazy beard. Just like I’d always suspected, Egbert’s lips were really nice. They were warm and so soft. And they tasted a bit like Deb’s lemon bars. “Yummy,” I managed to mumble as I pressed harder against the warmth of his mouth.

 

It took me a minute or two before I realized that Eggy wasn’t kissing me back. In fact, he’d gone super quiet and his whole body had become as stiff and still as a plank of wood. Which was definitely not the response I usually got when I kissed a guy. That odd reaction was what finally got my attention. Something here just wasn’t right. If only my brain didn’t feel so fuzzy, maybe I could figure it out. 

 

“Brian? You okay?” I asked, pulling away from his unresponsive lips. 

 

“. . .”

 

He just stared at me like I’d asked him to do computational physics in his head without a calculator or something. In fact, he looked like he was about to go into shock or something. This was not the reaction I typically got when I was ravaging him. In fact, none of this scenario really jivved with my usual lusty fantasies of me and Eggy together. In my fantasies, Brian would be kissing me back and we’d be naked and sweaty . . . and certainly not lying on the hard, lumpy, cold floor. Something definitely wasn’t right here.

 

Which is when I finally realized that this probably wasn’t just another fun Ravishing Eggy fantasy at all. I started to sit up so I could investigate further. It wasn’t till I tried to move more that I realized how much pain I was in. There was a horrible throbbing in my head, aches and pains all down the rest of me, and a matching throbbing in my right ankle. What the hell? What was happening here? 

 

I tried to look down at my foot which, after my aching head, was the next most painful part of my body, and realized I couldn’t see it very well because of the strange lighting situation. Of course that prodded me to look around again and that’s when understanding began to trickle into my fuzzy brain. Eggy and I were sitting on the rubble-strewn floor of the secret tunnel under Brian’s building. Oh, that explained the lack of light, I guess. So, what the fuck were we doing down here? And why were we sitting on the ground? Also, why was I all confused and achy and . . .

 

*Boing*

 

Some neural connection that had previously been scrambled finally made contact and all of a sudden I remembered what had happened. I remembered coming down here to go exploring. I remembered that I was facetiming with Brian as I went. I remembered that I hadn’t been paying attention to where I was going and that I’d tripped and . . . Okay, now everything was making a lot more sense. Well, sorta.

 

“Brian, what are you doing down here? I didn’t think you wanted to come into the tunnel?” I asked the still-stunned man kneeling by my side and looking a little dazed.

 

“I didn’t . . . but when you fell and I lost sight of you . . . you weren’t answering me . . . so I had to come down here to find out what happened . . . I thought maybe you were ambushed by rampaging black dwarves or fawns or something.” That comment left me a bit confused again - because, dwarves? fawns? seriously? - and the fact that he’d lost me must have shown on my face. “How hard DID you hit your head, Sunshine?” Brian asked, looking at me with even more concern than before. 

 

I reached up with my right hand and discovered a huge, tender, lump on my right temple. That probably wasn’t good. A second head injury in less than a month was unlikely to be at all helpful. 

 

“Is knocking yourself out a regular thing with you or something? Because, if so, I’m going to probably need to increase the liability insurance for the building . . . Or wrap you in bubble wrap - that’s probably cheaper,” Brian commented with what I thought was an attempt to be funny. 

 

“I didn’t used to have a problem with that before I met you, Eggy,” I answered, trying to smile through the pain. “Shit. What the fuck have I done to myself now?”

 

I quickly surveyed the rest of the damage as best I could in the near darkness of the tunnel. Besides the bump on my head, I had skinned up my arms, hands and elbows pretty badly, more on the right than the left. Both knees were also pretty sore, but I couldn’t see how bad they were hurt because of my jeans; hopefully the fabric had provided some protection. The worst of my injuries, though, was undoubtedly whatever had happened to my right ankle.

 

Even in the dim light of the flashlight Brian was still holding, I could tell that my ankle was already ballooning up. Stupid ankle. I had sprained it really badly back when I was only sixteen - I’d been trying to show off by running underneath a buddy who I’d been pushing on a swing, but I had misjudged the momentum of my last big push and, as I tried to dash under his ass on the up-arc, I got clipped by one of his long dangling feet and had gone down - a sprain that had been bad enough to put me in a boot-cast for six weeks. The ankle had never been quite the same since; I was always twisting that ankle over the smallest shit. So it wasn’t a huge surprise that I’d hurt it yet again, although this injury seemed worse than most. I could already tell I wouldn’t be walking on it any time soon. 

 

“Fuck! I think my damn ankle is sprained again,” I announced with disgust. “Well, so much for our evening of adventuring, Eggy.”

 

“Fine with me,” he mumbled, making me smile because that was just such an Eggy thing to say.

 

Brian started to get to his feet, biting at his lip and looking around himself as if he was still spooked by his surroundings. I knew he wanted to get out of the tunnel as soon as possible. However, that was going to be problematic.

 

“Sorry, Egbert, but I think I’m going to need some help here.” I pointed to my ankle. Because of the light and the fact that I was still wearing socks and shoes, he probably couldn’t tell how bad it was hurt, but I could. “I don’t think I can walk on it. At least not very far. Do you think you could lend me a hand, maybe?”

 

I held my hand up towards him, putting on my most pathetic, imploring face, and hoping that he would be able to do this. If not, I was either going to have to try and crawl my way out on my already abraded hands and knees or just decide to live here in the basement for the foreseeable future. C’mon, Eggy, you can do this . . .

 

It took him at least ninety full seconds before he responded by extending his own hand. I offered up my biggest smile as a reward for being so brave. Then I grabbed his big, sturdy hand and let him haul me up till I was standing on my one good foot. Once I was vertical, I wrapped my right arm around his waist and leaned into his side. Fuck it felt good to be so close to him, even though the reason for our closeness was my horribly achy ankle. And, when Brian reciprocated by clasping his left arm around my shoulder tight enough to make sure I didn’t topple over, it felt even better. Not to mention, the up-close-and-personal smell of his cologne was almost enough to make me forget about my ankle altogether.

 

“Come on, Burglar. Let’s get the fuck out of this disgusting tunnel already,” Brian muttered. 

 

I was just about to follow his directions but then looked around myself one last time and noted my phone lying on the ground a meter or so away. “Wait. My phone.” And I took one step forward towards the object before I practically screamed from the pain that action caused to my ankle. “Shit! Fuck! Damn it! . . .” Brian rushed to put a supportive arm around my waist so he could prevent me from upending yet again.  

 

“Hang on. I’ll get it. You just . . . just try not to fall over again,” my savior advised, stepping away from my side long enough to bend over and pick up the phone before returning to help stabilize me. “Here. It looks like your phone managed to avoid any serious damage. I’m not sure about the rest of you, though. How the fuck am I going to get you back up the stairs?”

 

“How’d you do it the last time I conked out on your floor?” I asked; something I’d wondered for a while but never had the guts to mention. 

 

“I carried your ridiculously fat ass ALL the way up the stairs,” Brian admitted as he scooped me up, lifting me in his arms as if I weighed nothing. “Fucking princess . . . swooning all over the place . . . you probably like being carried everywhere.”

 

I tried not to laugh at the way he was covering up his discomfort with grumbling. I was beginning to suspect my Eggy doth protest too much, you know? Of course, I really was a bit of a princess, so he wasn’t exactly wrong. But, then again, who didn’t enjoy being manhandled by a big, strong, warm, hunk of man meat like Brian? Am I right? Hell, I was loving this treatment; it was almost worth fucking up my ankle again. So I didn’t mind Brian pretending to be annoyed with me. I just wrapped my arms around his neck, rested my head against his firm chest, and held on, enjoying the ride.

 

We made it out of the tunnel and through the little secret room. Brian had to gently set me down - with me balancing on one leg - to close the doors to both the tunnel and secret room. After being scooped back up into those deceptively strong arms of his, though, we proceeded to exit the basement. Brian seemed intent on just getting out of there as quickly as possible. I managed to help him out a little bit by shutting off the lights as we neared the bottom of the steps. Then he struggled up the narrow basement steps - a feat that wasn’t easy because he had to sorta walk sideways with me in his arms so as not to bump my injured ankle against the walls - which made me swoon a little at his thoughtfulness. 

 

When we finally made it up to the ground floor, he huffed a huge breath and then carefully dropped me down to my own feet for a second. “Shit. I think you’ve put on ten pounds since the last time I did this. How many of those fucking lemon bars did you eat today?”

 

“You saw me - I only had two,” I replied, a little put out after basically being called fat by my boyfriend. “Maybe you should work out more, Mr. Hermit? You know, a good jog around the city wouldn’t hurt.”

 

“Shut up or I’ll drop you on your head again,” Brian warned right before he hefted me up in the air once more. 

 

So I shut up, because I really didn’t want to be dropped. I didn’t think my head - as thick as it is - could handle any more trauma. Plus, being carried by Brian . . . like, who in their right mind would complain about that? And, little by little, with short breaks on every landing so my hero could catch his breath, we slowly made our way up the six flights of stairs back to Brian’s rooms on the top floor. (Note to self - remember to ask him why the fuck he doesn’t set up house on a lower floor.) Eventually, though, we managed to reach his couch, where he carefully settled me on the cushions before collapsing next to me.

 

“Thanks for the lift, Big Guy,” I offered before reaching down to very carefully take off my sneaker and the sock on my right foot. I wasn’t disappointed in what I expected to find, either. My ankle was already puffy and starting to turn red as the millions of tiny ruptured blood vessels under the skin continued to leak into the surrounding tissue. “Shit. I’ll never be able to make it home on the bus and Daphne is doing an overnight shift at the hospital tonight . . .”

 

“Is this your way of finagling another sleepover?” Brian huffed, still pretending to be annoyed, although I was onto him enough by that point that I could tell he was thrilled with the prospect of company. 

 

“Maybe. But only because I know you can’t live without me,” I teased, doing that nose wrinkling thing that I knew would win him over. 

 

Brian shook his head but I could tell by the way he’d tucked his lips inside that he was hiding a smile in that beard of his. Fuck he was just too adorkable sometimes; trying to appear all gruff and uncaring when he’d just finished doing this amazing thing by facing all his fears to come save me. He was a bona fide hero, for fuck’s sake. Someone needed to tell him that. 

 

“Okay, so, consider this fair warning, Eggy, because I’m about to hug you,” I cautioned, twisting my body to face him and then slowly and deliberately reaching out till I could lasso him into a huge hug. “Thank you for coming to save me, Eggy,” I whispered. “My hero!”

 

“I didn’t save you,” he insisted, still pretending to be unconcerned. “I just didn’t want you dying down there and your bloated, rotting corpse stinking up my basement for the next thirty-some years.”

 

I scoffed loudly. “You’re such a romantic,” I teased. “Now, stop being all prickly so I can kiss you.”

 

“. . . Okay . . . But you do realize there are more subtle ways to come onto a guy, right?”

 

“What . . . like this?” I asked as I licked my lips and locked my eyes on that delicious mouth of his, slowly batting my lashes once for good measure. 

 

Brian gulped loudly. “Exactly.” 

 

“Fine. If you’re satisfied now, can I proceed with the kissing? Because, when I was kissing you downstairs, I hadn’t yet realized it was real - I thought it was just another of my Nasty Egbert fantasies - so I didn’t pay close enough attention, and I really want to remember it this time. Okay?” 

 

He didn’t say anything to stop me, which I took as a sign of agreement. At least he didn’t look like he was about to panic this time. So I closed my eyes and just went for it.

 

I felt myself leaning towards him and I could feel his warm breath on my face as our mouths were about to touch. I swear, the moment our lips connected I could feel my heart beating so wildly in my chest it felt like it was trying to escape. His lips . . . They were so soft . . . And after a couple of seconds of him just sitting there letting me kiss the hell out of him, he finally started to kiss back. Only, it wasn’t like the kisses I had been dreaming about - this wasn’t all tongue and spit-swapping - no, this was strangely better than I could have ever imagined. He opened his mouth ever so slightly and started nibbling on my lips, moaning quietly as though they were the most delicious things he had ever tasted. 

 

I wasn’t sure if I would ruin the moment by doing this, but my tongue was desperate to get in on the action so, without overthinking it too much, I poked the tip of my tongue out between my lips and ran it gently against Brian’s mouth. I felt him stiffen slightly against me, but then he parted his lips just enough so I could enter, allowing me to run my tongue along the inside of his lips. Fuck, he tasted amazing. We kept this up for a minute or two, and it was great. I’d always known we’d be great once we reached this stage. Thank fuck we’d arrived sooner than I’d anticipated! I could easily see myself becoming addicted to kissing this man, but what an addiction to have, huh?

 

Eventually, though, with a little smack of our lips, Brian pulled away. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Sunshine, but . . . why do you smell like a stale french fry?” 

 

“Dammit, Eggy, I’m doing my best lip work here and meanwhile you’re busy daydreaming about french fries? You’re not doing my ego any good, you know?” Brian just gave me this skeptical look. “Fine. If you must know, I always end up smelling like this after a day working at the Diner. I didn’t want to take the time to run home and shower first before coming over here, so . . .” Brian’s nose crinkled up slightly and I sighed. He’d done so amazingly well with the touching and the kissing and I didn’t want to ruin things because my eau-de-greasy-spoon turned him off. “I guess I COULD probably use a shower? And it wouldn’t hurt to wash all these cuts and bruises all over me.” Then I had an absolutely brilliant idea, and added, “I’m not sure I should try and shower alone, though. I might fall again with this ankle. Care to join me and make sure I don’t topple over?”

 

As well as Brian had been doing so far, this seemed to throw him for a loop, I’m not sure why. There was a definite spark of returning panic in his hazels, though. For about a half a second I thought about retreating - giving him the out I could tell he desperately wanted - but then I stopped myself. This was part of what Daphne had been saying, right? Eggy needed me to help him push himself. I wouldn’t force him, but I wasn’t going to withdraw the offer either. I wanted him to know that I wanted him. That I didn’t see him any differently than any other guy. That I wanted to be physically intimate with him. And he could have that option if he wanted it. It was all up to him. I would be there no matter what.

 

So, while I waited, trying to tamp down my expectations and hopes, poor Eggy debated with himself. You could almost see the thoughts whirling behind his eyes while his face remained almost blank. It was excruciating, just sitting there waiting to see what he would decide. I wanted more than anything to just make it all better for him, but I knew I couldn’t. He had to do this for himself. But the wait . . . Did I mention that I hate waiting? 

 

“Fuck it,” he muttered under his breath a good three minutes later. He stood up and held out his hand for me. “Let’s go, Stinky . . . Stupid fucking smelly burglars . . . I can’t have you stinking up the whole room all night long, but I don’t need you conking out in my shower and getting blood all over everything, either.”

 

I thought it best not to say anything, so I just smiled and let him help me up to my feet again. Well, up to my one foot, since the other was now completely useless. My right ankle was roughly the size and shape of a grapefruit by that point - if grapefruit came in an ugly, purpley-red color and caused you to scream in pain every time you touched one. Fuck, that hurt!

 

Brian cinched his arm around my waist and half carried me the few meters to his bathroom while I tried to support my weight as best I could on my one good leg. It wasn’t my most graceful moment, but what the hell, right? If it meant that I got to hang onto my elusive hermit, maybe it was worth it? 

 

We successfully made it into the bathroom and Brian lifted me up so I was sitting on the edge of the bathroom counter with my injured leg dangling in mid air. Then he stopped, standing there looking at me like he didn’t know what came next. I was curious to see what he’d do. How resolute was my recluse going to be? When he was still staring at me a half a minute later, though, I opted to take charge a little. Egbert had already done so much that was completely out of his comfort zone that day and I didn’t want to push him any more. 

 

So, slowly, and with careful but deliberate movements, I reached down, grabbed the hem of my shirt, and attempted to pull it off, over my head as sexily as I could, pausing slightly as I got myself slightly tangled up. It didn’t take me long to recover - although the smirk on his face as I looked up made me shake my head in embarrassment. This is what I get for trying to be a twinkie version of a stripper. 

 

Once I’d gotten over my faux pas, I peeked up at my man and was gratified to see the avid way he was watching my every motion. If he could eat me up with his eyes, he would have done it there and then. I tossed my shirt aside and reached out to take hold of his shirt next, tugging at the fabric hard enough to cause him to step forward, closer and closer to me, until he was right there in the vee between my thighs. Then I ran my hands up under his clothing, letting my fingers trail over the toasty-warm skin I found underneath. 

 

Okay, THIS was much more like one of my fantasies. Nice. Very nice. 

 

“You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to do this,” I whispered. “Damn, Eggy, you are the hottest hermit the world has ever seen . . .”

 

That made him chuckle and he finally relaxed a little bit. I took the opportunity to finish removing his shirt, rucking the fabric up far enough that I forced him to raise his hands, and then pulling from the shoulder until I got the shirt over his head. Which gave me gloriously bare Egbert and that’s all I ever really wanted in the world. Damn, this boy was all that. I mean, ALL THAT! I could . . .

 

“. . . Climb you like a jungle gym . . .”

 

Brian burst out into laughter. 

 

“Damn. I said that out loud, didn’t I?” I could feel my cheeks reddening with embarrassment, but whatever. “Fuck it all. Come here, Eggy, and let me worship you and your gorgeousness.”

 

He shook his head at my over-the-top enthusiasm, but inched forward a little closer at the same time. I crooked my good leg around his thigh and pulled him up against me. Then I very pointedly hooked my fingers over the waistband of his jeans and smiled up at him as I popped the top button open. He stiffened slightly, but he didn’t do or say anything to stop me, so I undid the second button. And the third. And then the last. And then his pants started to slide down his skinny hips, not stopping till they bunched up around his ankles, leaving me face to face with a completely naked, and highly aroused Eggy Jr.

 

“Hello there!” I greeted my new friend. 

 

“If you’re expecting him to return the greeting, I hate to disappoint you, but he doesn’t usually say much,” my man grinned down at me. 

 

“Oh? Is he shy?” I asked, joining in with the silliness. 

 

“Yeah,” he snorted, “that’s it.”

 

I knew I was staring, but I couldn’t help it. I don’t think I’d ever seen a more beautiful penis in my life. To distract myself from gushing over his dick - because I knew I probably couldn’t go there yet, no matter how brave my man was being about the touching thing - I said the first thing that came to mind, which ended up making me sound like a moron, but whatever. If Brian wanted suave and sophisticated, he was out of luck.

 

“You have such a cute belly button,” I babbled.

 

Brian pulled away from me slightly with a look of what could only be described as disgust on his face. “Cute? My belly button isn’t cute. What the fuck are you on?”

 

I really needed to stop saying shit like that out loud. “I’m sorry, what I actually meant to say was how sexy and manly it is . . .” Then I laughed at how stupid we both sounded. 

 

The kidding around was definitely helping my man relax, though - you could see it in his shoulders and the way he was standing - he was no longer stiff as a board. Well, a certain part of him was, and I was very much okay with that, but the rest of him was loosening up nicely. And I took advantage of that fact to lean in and leave a kiss in the adorably manly belly button. 

 

“We . . . we really need to take your jeans off,” Brian suggested, his voice gone a little breathy.

 

I nodded my head and reached down to unsnap the buttons on my grubby 501s. I wiggled them over my boxer-clad bum and down my legs, being extra careful as they reached my ankle. I had decided to keep my boxers on until I stood back up since I didn’t think Brian would appreciate seeing my unshowered ass on his pristine marble countertops. 

 

“A little help here?” I asked as I’d already pulled my good leg free of the denim but was struggling to get them over my swollen ankle. 

 

I could see the hesitation in his eyes and in the way his hands shook nervously. It was funny, Brian was as confident as could be standing before me naked as the day he was born, but as soon as it came to us having any sort of contact he froze up. No problem; I was getting good at this hermit therapy crap. I just kept smiling at him invitingly till I’d worn him down.

 

“Okay . . .” Brian answered quietly, as he bent down and carefully pulled the jeans off of my ankle. “Eesh,” he hissed as his eyes took in my poor, injured foot. “We should probably put some ice on this once we’ve showered.” I nodded, unable to respond like a normal human being as he gently stroked the tips of his fingers over my ugly, purple ankle with a look of sadness in his eyes. “This looks really painful.”

 

I shrugged. “It feels really painful too,” I snarked.

 

“I was trying to be sympathetic,” Brian complained with a wicked grin. “But if you’re gonna be a brat . . .” The sadistic stylite then pinched my side, causing me to squirm and halfway fall off the counter. “Whoa. Careful.” Brian used one of those big hands to steady me and I obediently stilled myself before I really did fall and reinjure my ankle. “Now, let’s get the stink off you already before my place permanently smells like a McDonald’s.”

 

Brian turned the shower on and then came back to help me down off the counter. He steadied me while I balanced on my good leg, squirming till I got my briefs off. Next, he watched nervously while I hopped the rest of the way into the shower under my own steam. And fuck if the warm water cascading down over my sore body didn’t feel heavenly. Brian joined me a second later, shutting the shower door behind him with a click. Of course, then he had to go and get all shy on me again, standing there just beyond the range of the spray like he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing, and looking all adorably confused. He was such a silly goose. I thought we were over that already. But no matter, I just grabbed his hand and yanked him nearer till I could comfortably rest my head against his smooth chest while the water rained down on us both. Only then did his arms snake up and encircle my waist, holding me close to him and supporting me while we both relaxed and let the water sluice over us.

 

And, while he was holding me like that, I happened to look over to the right, through the glass of the shower surround, catching a glimpse of us in the mirror over the sink. What I saw was so beautiful. I saw two men, holding each other, the larger one being extra tender and solicitous. If I wasn’t so damned happy right where I was, I would have jumped out and run to get my sketch pad so I could draw the scene we were making. But, since I was way too contented right where I was, I stayed put, hoping to memorize the picture I saw so I could draw it later.

  
*********

Chapter Music Selection - [Touch Me by The Doors](https://youtu.be/y7GKblttlMY). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3/16/19 - So, Eggy and The Brat finally get to touch! And you even got a kiss thrown in there for good measure. Do I hear a ‘Yay!’? Now that you’ve all had your romantic fix, how about we go back to plotting out the mystery behind the building? TAG & Sally.


	20. Sleepover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will all that touching and kissing go any further? Read on and see. Enjoy! TAG & Sally

 

Chapter 20 - Sleepover

  
  


Random thought #3268: why does human skin shrivel up like a raisin when we’re in water for too long? I mean, seriously, what’s up with that? If we really are descended from creatures that crawled out of the sea, shouldn’t we be able to handle extra-long showers without getting all pruny and icky? Asking for a friend who just really likes taking long, sweet, intimate, showers with his otherwise hands-off boyfriend but doesn’t like the raisin-fingers that come with the experience. 

 

“We should get out of here and get you off that ankle,” Brian insisted when he noticed me surreptitiously scowling at my water-puckered fingertips. 

 

“No. I’m fine. The hot water feels realllly good.”

 

“Maybe, but I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to put ice on swelling ankles and conked heads, not heat,” he maintained. 

 

Brian turned the two of us slightly so that more of the shower stream would hit me. His large, soft hands glided over my skin, helping to rinse away any lingering soap. Did I mention how great the soap he used smells? Then he filled one palm with some shampoo from a dispenser affixed to the tiles of the shower wall and began to run his hands through my hair. Damn, if having your hair washed for you isn’t the most sensual experience ever invented! I hadn’t felt that cared for and loved in . . . well, ever. Who knew his hands were so soft? I sure as hell didn’t. It just felt so fucking good, you know? And, despite our shower adventure being relatively chaste up to that point, I could feel certain parts of my anatomy getting warmer even as the shower water was starting to cool. But, since I didn’t think we were ready to go THERE, I just took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on something other than my dick. 

 

Seizing on the first topic that came to mind, I blurted, “so, how come you’re hairy all over except on your chest.” 

 

I let my palm rest on his pec, centered right over the perky nub of a nipple, and allowed my puckered fingertips to play in the few hairs they found there. I could tell he hadn’t shaved or waxed or anything, because no stubble, so the relatively light hair growth that covered his pecs - heavier around the areolas and down the midline that led over solidly defined abs to a more pronounced treasure trail - was a little surprising. Judging by the bush of hair covering his chin, not to mention the magnificent bush down below, I would have expected him to be a regular caveman. But no. That chest was not only fairly sparsely covered, but the hair itself was a lighter color, more a light auburn than the darker brunet I saw elsewhere. It was fascinating. Probably why I couldn’t seem to keep my hands away. Or maybe that was because of the eminently touchable muscles underneath. Either way, I was revelling in running my hands all the fuck over that chest. I couldn’t get enough of the way he sucked in his breath when I ran my hands over a particularly ticklish spot. 

 

“I blame Donal for passing on too many red-headed Irish leprechaun genes,” Brian surmised as he manually tilted my head back letting all the shampoo rinse out. “You should’ve seen me as a kid; after spending way too much time outside all summer I’d be practically ginger by the time September rolled around.”

 

“Mmmmm. Ginger Eggy. Wish I’d seen that. I bet you were adorable as a kid,” I concluded. But thoughts of a young Egbert brought up other questions. “So does that mean you weren’t always hidden away here in your tower.”

 

“You make me sound like fucking Rapunzel or something,” Brian grumbled. He moved away from me far enough to turn the shower off and then, after making sure I was holding onto the shower support bar for balance, he stepped out to grab two towels from the heated towel rack. “And, no, I wasn’t always . . . like this. There was once a time in my life where my body absorbed vitamin D naturally instead of through a supplement,” he stated rather matter-of-factly. 

 

I took the towel he offered and began to dry myself off while I waited to see if any further explanations would be forthcoming. Brian ignored me, drying himself all over and then depositing his towel in the nearby laundry hamper. He also took that opportunity to pick up both his and my clothing, adding them to the hamper. Then he reached under the sink, pulled out a bottle of antibacterial spray cleaner and a sponge and started to attack the already spotless countertops surrounding the sink, his nose mere inches away from the counter as he scrubbed at non existent stains. 

 

Okay. So, apparently, I’d hit on an anxiety-causing topic. Good to know. 

 

I finished drying myself and then carefully hopped out of the shower, trying to prevent my bad ankle from making any contact with the floor. Brian immediately confiscated my wet towel and put it in the hamper too. Then he went back to scrubbing at the countertops with a vengeance I hadn’t seen before. Good thing they were solid marble or he would have scrubbed a hole through them by now. Maybe it was time for more Taylor distractions?

 

“Ow!” I yelled. “Damn. I knocked my ankle again. This totally sucks. I think you’re going to have to give me a hand again.”

 

Brian was so easy. He immediately dropped his cleaning supplies and rushed to my side, offering his nice solid body as a support. Of course, now I was standing there, precariously balanced on one foot, stark naked, and Brian had just taken away both my towel and all my clothing. It didn’t help matters much that Brian was still buck naked too. Or that I’d been fighting against all these naked-with-Eggy urges for the entire shower. I mean, come on! What’s a guy supposed to do in that kind of situation? It was pretty obvious what my dick thought of this arrangement, though, so I figured I might as well stop fighting it.

 

“Don’t know about you, Eggy, but I can think of at least one thing I’d rather be doing right now that doesn’t involve helping you clean the bathroom.” I waggled my eyebrows at him in what I hoped was an invitingly sexy manner. “How about you put down that sponge and help me to bed, huh?”

 

I watched as Brian’s eyes drifted over my pleasingly bare body and I could tell he was interested. More than interested, if the way his glance got stuck on my midsection meant anything. And, since he was still naked too, that interest was more than evident, if you get my drift. For about ten seconds I thought I had him and maybe my wildest dreams were about to come true. 

 

But then, almost against his will, I felt him sorta pull back from me. Biting at his bottom lip, he looked back over at the counter he’d been cleaning. I peeked around his shoulder and could see that there was a foot-square corner of the surface that hadn’t been wiped down yet where you could see the sheen from his cleaning spray still glistening on the marble. I could tell he was caught up in his OCD thing. He just couldn’t leave that counter unwiped. Not even for something as tempting as my tight, twinkie ass on offer, free of charge. And it was pretty much killing him to stand there, unable to make the decision about what to do . . . which pull was going to win out. 

 

Darn it. It was almost physically painful for ME to watch him fighting with himself like that. It was yet another reminder of all the stumbling blocks we’d have to overcome if we were actually going to try and make something out of this attraction we both seemed to feel. But it was probably a good thing that this interruption cooled things off between us so effectively, because we clearly weren’t ready for more.

 

“It’s okay, Eggy. I get it. You gotta do your thing, right? So, how about you just help me to bed first and then you can take care of whatever you need to do, huh?” I offered.

 

Which is how I ended up in Brian’s guest room bed, alone and in pain and ridiculously horny. I know I should have been happy with all that Eggy and I had accomplished that day. He’d come so far already. I could wait a bit longer, right?

 

Did I mention how much I HATE waiting?

 

However, I was obviously way more tired than I had realized, because I was fast asleep almost as soon as Brian had left the room. I heard him heading back to the bathroom to finish punishing the poor marble counter, but then that was it. I was off to dreamland where all my dreams were filled with naked Eggy kisses . . . so nice.

 

I was in the middle of a deliciously innocent dream about making out with my Eggy, when I felt the bed dip beside me. 

 

“Wake up, Justin.”

 

“Huh?” Fuck, I’m so sexy, I think I may have also snorted as I came to. 

 

“I need to make sure you’re okay. I’m not supposed to let you sleep for longer than two hours.”

 

I rolled onto my side so that I was facing Brian and smiled up into the darkness. His beautiful face was silhouetted by the light coming into the room from the hallway and, damn, it made me want to grab his face and kiss it. “You don’t have to do that, Brian. After my head’s last encounter with your floors, I asked my friend Daphne and she told me doctors don’t bother with that anymore. That’s just a myth.”

 

“No it’s not. I Googled it.”

 

“Oooh, then it must be true,” I teased, loving the way Brian scoffed at me, so obviously put out by being associated with such a clever clogs. 

 

Brian crossed his arms over his chest and turned his head away from me. “Fine, I won’t wake you. See how you like falling into a coma . . .” 

 

“Brian, I didn’t mean . . .”

 

It took everything in him not to fall off the bed laughing at his own joke. “You’re so easy, Sunshine.”

 

“Um . . .”

 

“I’m still waking you at least a few more times, whether you like it or not,” he told me. 

 

“Brian,” I moaned, rubbing my cheek tiredly against the pillow. 

 

Out of nowhere, I felt Brian’s hand run very gently over my damp hair. “Calm down, Doogie Howser. You can prove your point tomorrow. But, until then, I’m doing what I think is best. Okay?”

 

I yawned loudly. “‘Kay.”

 

I couldn’t even remember falling back to sleep; it was only when I felt myself being poked continuously on my shoulder (he definitely enjoyed doing that too much) that I opened my eyes. 

 

“What?” I snapped before I even realized I had done it. 

 

Brian leant down until his mouth was right by my ear. “What year is it? Who is the current president of The United States?” he whispered. Fuck, I felt myself shiver as his warm breath hit my face. 

 

“The longer you take to answer me, the more concerned I will get and the more I will wake you up.” That little shithead, that’s SO not how this worked. 

 

“2015.”

 

“...”

 

“And to answer your other question, Barack Obama is the current president of the United States.” 

 

“Justin???” I could tell he wasn’t sure if I was serious or not. The light wasn’t great in here as it was, and I’d answered completely dead pan. “You’re not fucking serious are you?”

 

I could feel the corners of my mouth turning up, knowing I had got him good. “No, I’m kidding. I know it’s 2019 and that the current president is a moronic orange buffoon whose name I refuse to say aloud. We would be better off having an actual Cheeto running the country . . .”

 

I heard him scoff loudly. “Asshole.”

 

“He is! That’s why I refuse to accept he’s my president,” I yawned, snuggling back under the warm covers. 

 

“Agreed. However, I was talking about you.”

 

I fell asleep to the soft sounds of my Eggy laughing to himself. 

 

“Justin . . . wakey wakey, eggs and bakey . . .”

 

“Mmmm,” I stretched. “You cooked me breakfast?” I asked tiredly. “Nothing smells burnt.”

 

“Twat,” he laughed “it’s only five am, so you still have a while until it’s breakfast time I’m afraid.”

 

“Ugh . . .”

 

“Are you hungry?”

 

I rubbed my tummy, like that would answer the question. I shook my head. “No.”

 

“Then go back to sleep.”

 

I didn’t have to be told twice. As soon as I pulled the covers up over my head I was fast asleep again. 

 

“Do you think I should shave off my beard?”

 

“Huh” I pulled my head out from the cocoon of blankets I had made for myself and looked up at Brian. He was sitting next to me, on top of the covers, with his legs crossed at his ankles and was scratching nervously at his face. 

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“My beard? Should I shave it? Was it . . . too scratchy when . . . when we kissed?”

 

If I could die from how cute this man was, I’d be deader than dead. 

 

I pulled my arm out from under the covers and let it graze the top of his sweat pants-clad leg, waiting to see if he’d grant me access. Once I knew he was okay with it, I started to stroke the soft cotton. “A little, yeah. But it felt really good at the same time,” I told him honestly. “Besides, you can’t shave it off yet. Not until . . .”

 

“Until what?” he asked when I realized what I’d been about to reveal and abruptly stopped myself. “Justin? What were you about to say? Why can’t I shave yet?”

 

“Well, it’s just . . .” I stuttered along, my brain still too fuzzy from sleep to think fast enough to come up with a way out of this. “I just . . . sorta . . . I . . .” Oh, fuck it, I might as well confess. “I had this one fantasy about you rubbing me all over with that beard and I could feel how it tickled and scratched along my thighs while you . . .” 

 

I pointedly looked down to where you could see a noticeable bulge beginning under the sheet that was covering my crotch area. Brian snickered wickedly. I knew I was blushing because of the way it felt like my face was practically on fire - damn my pale skin - but I figured, in for a penny, in for a pound, right? I might as well tell him everything now. 

 

“Besides, if you do shave it off, I want to be the one who does it . . . and we have to be naked . . . and there will be large quantities of soap involved . . . and . . . *moan* . . .”

 

“So, judging by your reaction, I’m going to assume that you’re fine and don’t have a concussion or any sort of permanent brain damage,” Brian assessed with a knowing little smirk, which was only partially hidden by the beard in question. “Now, if you can put those fantasies of yours on hold for a little longer, Tiger, I’ve got bagels in the toaster for our breakfast. Then we’ll try to figure out how bad your ankle is and whether we need to find a way to get you to a doctor.”

 

I pushed myself up in the bed so I was in a sitting position and tried to will away the raging boner I’d given myself while I carefully flexed my ankle. Yeah, it was still horribly painful. There was no way I would be walking on it yet. In fact, I dreaded even looking at it because I could already feel how bad it was. The second day of a sprain is always worse than the first, in my experience. Plus, not only does it feel even more stiff and painful, but it starts to get that black-purple-green tinge to it that makes you gag. Nope, I was not looking forward to this part of the morning at all. 

 

“Come on, Sleeping Beauty,” Brian insisted, pulling back the covers. 

 

And, yep, it was just as bad as I’d suspected. The swelling had gone down a little, so my ankle no longer looked like a grapefruit, but it was still distorted and didn’t look like an ankle. The bruising had also reached epic levels of ugliness. It LOOKED painful. It WAS painful. And that’s before I even tried putting any weight on it. Shit. What the fuck was I going to do?

 

“I don’t think I’ll be going far on this thing,” I concluded. “Any chance of getting breakfast in bed? If not, I’m thinking you’re going to have to carry me again, Eggy, because this ankle is not going to cooperate.”

 

I could immediately tell that my suggestion was causing Brian some discomfort. I could see him biting at his bottom lip as he assessed the possible messiness of me eating in bed. It was probably the thought of all those crumbs going everywhere. But the alternative was more touching and, despite all our progress from the night before, I could already tell that his OCD tendencies were rearing their ugly head. He hadn’t touched me yet this morning and, while he hadn’t pulled away when I reached out to touch his leg through his pants, there hadn’t been anything more offered. Which was infuriating, but probably not all that surprising. I mean, it made sense that years worth of an increasing spiral of OCD rituals wouldn’t just be overcome in one night, right? It wasn’t even like us touching had been his choice - he’d been forced to come rescue me when I knocked myself out in his basement - if he hadn’t helped me back upstairs the previous night I’d still be laying there in pain on the floor of his basement. So, yeah, it was disappointing that he was back to struggling against the pull of all his neuroses and compulsions, but it was understandable too.

 

Not that I wasn’t going to keep pushing, of course. “So, what’s your preference? Crumbs in your linens or hauling my perky yet plump posterior all over your tower all morning?” I batted my lashes at him while offering up the second alternative just to let him know where my own preferences lay. A boy can dream, right?

 

Eggy apparently found my flirty approach a bit humorous, causing him to crack a smile and relieving some of his nervousness. “What the fuck. I can always just chuck all the bedding in the wash once I do finally get rid of your freeloading ass,” he surmised with a dismissive shake of his head. “Breakfast in bed coming right up, Princess.”

 

When Brian returned a few minutes later, I was happy to see that his tray of breakfast goodies contained enough for two. Now, if I could only talk him into crawling in bed with me so we could cuddle while we shared our bagels, that would be something. However, judging by the way Brian took out a bottle of hand sanitizer to use on his hands, not to mention the way he wiped down the nightstand at least twice before he set down his own plate, that wasn’t likely. Hey, at least he was trying, right? I mean, he was eating with me off a tray in his guest room, so I probably should try and overlook the repetitive rituals and the way he was nervously moving items on the tray around until they were all in perfect alignment with each other, right?

 

I took a moment to devour about half of my own cream cheese-laden bagel before I said anything. “Have you ever considered some kind of anti-anxiety medication?” I blurted. It had been a topic I had wanted to bring up for a while, but I had never found the perfect time to ask . . . And it seemed I still hadn’t . . . Whoops. 

 

He looked up at me, took the time to wipe off his fingers for the fiftieth time, and then smiled sadly. “I’m less fond of doctors than I am of annoying burglars who get crumbs all over my guest room or secret tunnels in my basement, so no.”

 

“I’m only asking because my friend, Daphne . . .”

 

“Your friend whom you cite endlessly to mask the fact that you’re nosy as fuck?”

 

“Yeah. That one,” I admitted, because, he had me there, no denying it. “Anyway, Daphne was saying something the other day about how there’s all these great new meds that might help you. I mean, they probably won’t cure your OCD or anything, but they might help you cope a little better. Make everything feel less stressful for you. Maybe even make it so you’d be more open to trying out some of those ideas I had for your beard . . .”

 

That earned me a chuckle or two but in the end he just shook his head again, dismissing my idea outright. “I’m not going to see some quack doctor, Sunshine.”

 

“But what if a doctor came here to see you?”

 

“I didn’t think doctors did house calls anymore.”

 

“Well, no, most don’t but . . .” I took another bite of my bagel and thought through what I was proposing. “I don’t know. Maybe Daphne knows someone who could help? She works at the Magee-Women’s Hospital and knows a lot of people. She might have some ideas. And I would really, really, REALLY like it if you and I could, you know, maybe, sorta get beyond all this.” I gestured with my bagel in a large circle indicating all the distance between the two of us, accidentally causing a cascade of cream cheesy crumbs to fly pretty much everywhere, resulting in Brian hoping up off his chair and diving for the box of wipes so he could clean up the mess I’d just made. “. . . case in point.”

 

Brian looked guiltily up at me from the floor, realizing what he’d done. Then he quickly dabbed up all the crumbs he could see with yet another of the endless supply of wipes, before resuming his seat. My poor Eggy, he looked so forlorn, it nearly broke my heart.

 

“How does this sound?” I spoke up, trying to help out a bit. “I need to call Daph and have her come pick me up anyway - because there’s no way I’ll make it home on the bus with my ankle like this - which will give you two a chance to meet and sort of get acquainted. And, assuming that goes well, we could ask Daphne to see if any of her doctor friends might be willing to come out and talk to you? No commitments or anything, just talking. What do you think?”

 

Brian looked a little spooked by this suggestion but, to his credit, I could tell he was seriously thinking it through. Did I mention how incredibly fucking brave he was? I’d been heaping one challenge after another on him for weeks now, and he was doing so well at trying to face them. No wonder I found myself falling in love with him. 

 

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to talk to your friend,” Eggy conceded with a huge sigh.

 

“It won’t. And I promise you’ll love her. “

 

“Is she as annoying as you?” Brian asked semi-seriously. 

 

“Even more so,” I laughed, thoroughly enjoying the look of dread on his face as he thought about being tagged teamed by me and my bestie. 

 

I wasn’t sure why, but I had a good feeling about this. 

 

**********  
  
Chapter Music Selection - [Sleepover by Hayley Kiyoko](https://youtu.be/W6jxPFtIAnw). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry we’ve slacked off on the plotty parts of the story - we got too caught up in the development of the romance between Brian and Justin here. But, don’t fret - they’ll get back to that secret tunnel as soon as Justin’s ankle heals. In the meantime, enjoy all the flirtiness. TAG & Sally


	21. Back To You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Sunshine to spread some holiday cheer to his hermit. Enjoy! TAG

  
  


Chapter 21 - Back To You.

  
  


Unfortunately it took several days before I could get back to my sweet, solitary, Eggy. 

 

After we finished our breakfast in bed, I called Daphne, who totally freaked out over the news that I’d hit my head again. She insisted that I go to Urgent Care right away and informed me she was speeding right over to pick me up. Brian brought me my fully laundered clothing - I think he’d even ironed my jeans, judging by the perfect creases down the front of each leg - and helped steady me while I dressed. By the time I’d hobbled down the five flights of stairs to the ground floor, with Eggy’s help of course, Daphne was already there waiting for me. I barely got time to say goodbye to Brian before the two of them had me deposited in Daphne’s car. But I did manage to steal a short little kiss from my Eggy as he reached across my body to buckle my seatbelt for me. He seemed startled but kissed back briefly so I figured it was a win. And then I was rushed off to the doctor’s without further ado.

 

During their very limited interaction, Brian and Daphne were playing it super cool. It was sorta hilarious, actually. I mean, here was the man who probably hadn’t been out of his tower in fuck knew how many years, and who’s only human contact had been the boy that delivered his groceries each week, just casually helping me out of the building and into Daphne’s car while he pretended it was normal for him to chat up some strange woman. Daph, on the other hand, was trying her best not to react to Brian any differently than she would with anyone else, so as to try and not make things harder for him. If it hadn’t been for the way Brian nervously avoided touching Daphne as they joined forces to help me into the car, or the way his eyes kept darting around anxiously as if looking out for disguised attackers, I might have even bought his act. I think the only thing holding him together at that point was his concern for me, the big old softie. But, because of his epic level of discomfort, as well as Daphne’s overblown concern for the state of my physical well-being, the conversation was short and casual and we didn’t even get close to the topic of meds for Brian. 

 

So then the doctors did their thing and declared me near death - or at least that’s how Daphne seemed to understand things - and sent me home with directions to stay in bed until at least spring. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a bit there, but that’s what it felt like. Did I mention that I’m not a good patient? I hate sitting around in bed all day, even when I’m really sick, and being told to stay put for days on end when I’m not really sick, just a little achy, was killing me. But I didn’t have much choice in the matter since I had no source of transportation and couldn’t yet handle the bus with my ankle the way it was. Daph, meanwhile, was working double shifts every day, taking up the slack for everyone using their vacation days in the lead up to Christmas, so she wasn’t even around to help me out with a ride. This meant, unfortunately, that my ass was stranded and I was left alone with my boredom.

 

I spent my time, like any red-blooded gay boy would, whacking off around the clock to memories of my shower with Eggy. And, when my dick got too sore for that pastime, I moved on to sketching pictures of my shower with Eggy. When even that got too tedious, I launched into a naughty texting campaign with Eggy that inevitably led back to pastime number one. Yes, I realize I’m totally pathetic, but it was working for me for the time being, so fuck off with your judgmental shit, okay?

 

Finally, it was Christmas Eve and I had an actual reason to get out of bed and get dressed. And for the first time in a long time I felt almost excited to see my father, since he was the excuse for my being allowed out of bed. I got up, took a shower, dressed in suitably stuffy clothing, and strapped on my old boot cast so I could at least hobble around on my own. Dad had sent a car to pick me up, of course, so I didn't have to deal with public transportation. It was like being freed from a long prison sentence or something. So I was feeling expansively happy to see dear old dad when I arrived at his house for the traditional, formal, Christmas Eve dinner with his replacement family.

 

That holiday spirit lasted all the way up until he started to grill me about what, exactly, I was doing with my life these days. Neither Craig nor his latest girlfriend seemed impressed with my description of life at TAIP. He didn’t even crack a smile when I told him that my Art & Architecture project had won an award and was going to be featured in that spring’s Student Art Showcase - an honor I’d just received notice of that morning. Apparently Molly’s announcement that she’d made the JV Field Hockey team at school was more important, according to Dad, and the conversation quickly moved away from me. I tried not to let it get to me as I sat there through the seemingly endless, five course meal, and tried to keep up with all the meaningless small talk without falling asleep. I seriously couldn’t wait for the day when I no longer had to kiss up to this boring old loser just for the sake of his money. 

 

I was desperate enough that I used my concussion as an excuse to cut out of the party early - and, as an aside, was it telling that my father hadn’t even asked once how I had hurt myself or how I was feeling, cuz I felt that was somehow the truest gauge of the state of our relationship - begging off from the post-dinner cocktails and discussion of how I should amend my life in the new year. Dad seemed more than happy to call the car service to take me home. 

 

Once I’d pocketed the envelope containing my usual Christmas check - because it goes without saying that my father could never be bothered to actually go out and shop for a present for his children and instead made due with buying us off - I loaded myself into the town car. I was so happy to get the fuck out of there; I can’t even think of the words to describe my sense of relief the moment the driver turned the corner and Dad’s house was no longer visible. But, despite my fibbing, I wasn’t even the least bit tired and the thought of going back to my boring apartment all alone was excruciating. I decided not to look askance at the gift of free transportation, and told the driver to take me instead to 26 Liberty Avenue.

 

When the car was only a kilometer or two away I texted Egbert with a warning. ‘Hey! So, if you hear someone at your street door in about 2 minutes, don’t freak out. It’s only your friendly Xmas Burglar’.

 

‘I thought even Burglars spent this night with their families?’ he texted back.

 

‘You haven’t met my family . . .’

 

I got a laughing face emoji in response but before I could elucidate, the car had arrived at my destination. I thanked the driver, making a point of being extra nice since he was giving up his own Xmas for this, then climbed out of the car and hobbled over to the street door of my favorite triangular building in the world. 

 

Which is when I was stopped cold. 

 

How the fuck was I supposed to break into the building with my foot in this damned boot cast? If I tried to kick it with my injured foot - my usual technique to jimmy the door - it would hurt like fuck. But, at the same time, I didn’t think I was stable enough to balance on that foot while kicking with the other foot. Damn my stupid bad luck and weak ankles! 

 

Luckily, I had only been standing there berating myself for a minute or two before the lights in the lobby switched on and I saw Bill The Cat pattering down the stairs to come stand in front of me behind the door. I could see him meowing at me through the glass. He was definitely getting a little pushy about demanding his treats from me. I almost felt bad that I hadn’t had time to stop by a coffee shop on the way to get him his creamer. 

 

“Hey, Bill. Could you go tell your person that I’m here and I can’t do my burglar thing with a broken foot?” I called to the cat though the door, getting only another plaintive meow for my efforts. 

 

Thankfully the cat’s person chose that moment to appear at the foot of the stairs. Egbert had the biggest smile on his face I thought I’d ever seen. He sprinted across the lobby and twisted the lock before pushing the door open to let me in. 

 

“Hey, Eggy. Got room in your tower for a holiday refugee?” I asked, getting this adorably shy smile in return.

 

“I’m not sure. I only have about fifty spare rooms, you know . . .”

 

“Sounds crowded . . .” I teased with a chuckle. “But, if you don’t take pity on me and let me in, I’ll be forced to go home to an empty apartment - Daph is working the night shift because she gets, like, quadruple pay for working Christmas Eve and tells me she needs the money - and nobody should be alone tonight, right?”

 

I saw a flicker of sadness pass through the hazel eyes but I was glad to see that he shook it off. He took a step back and formally bowed me inside. I limped forward a couple of steps until I was all the way inside and he could re-lock the door.

 

“Your ankle is still that bad?” 

 

“It’s getting better. This boot makes it seem worse than it is because it’s so bulky, but at least it provides enough support that I can move around a bit more when I wear it.” I gestured at the encumbrance with resignation. “It may not be pretty, but at least it’s functional, so I’m just going to go for it. Personally, I think I totally rock the invalid look, don’t you?”

 

Eggy made this squinty-eyed face at me that caused me to giggle. Okay, maybe the giggling had something to do with the four glasses of wine I’d had at Craig’s dinner party - yeah, I’m blaming my un-manly giggling on that - I’m also blaming all that wine for the way I stumbled forward with my next step, almost toppling over. 

 

The result of my klutziness was that Brian was forced to reach out and catch me before I fell and hurt myself for the third time. What the fuck was up with me falling all over myself in that damned tower, anyways? It’s like the place was cursed or something. At least this time, though, my hero was right there with his big, strong, arms, ready to catch me. 

 

“Either you’re seriously aiming for that protective bubble wrap suit I mentioned before or else you just love doctors’ offices. I can’t tell which,” Brian half-joked as he settled me back on my own foot-and-a-half, holding on with one hand just to ensure I was truly stable. 

 

“Actually, it’s all part of my secret plan to get you to feel me up,” I replied without thinking. Of course, then I realized that sounded more than just a little manipulative, and maybe even a little stalkery, and I didn’t want Brian to think I had some kind of kinky ‘Munchausen Syndrome’ thing where I’d intentionally hurt myself just so I could force my OCD boyfriend to touch me - because that was too creepy even for me, right? - so I rushed on to add an even more ridiculous excuse that made me sound even more pathetic than I already was. “Yeah, I guess now’s not the time to confess that I’m addicted to your cologne and I’ll do anything for another chance to smell you.”

 

Yeah . . . Did I mention the too much wine thing? . . . We’re blaming all of this on the wine, okay? 

 

“You are easily the strangest person I have EVER met,” my Eggy declared with a confused shake of his head. All I managed was another girlish giggle and a soft burp. “Come on. Let’s get you someplace where you’ll at least have a soft landing when you do fall over again.”

 

I shivered as the warmth of his arm again wrapped around my shoulders; it just felt so fucking good, you know? He turned me around, pivoting my body using the heel of the boot cast I was wearing as a fixed axis of rotation, and once we were aimed directly at the opening for the stairway, he pressed against the small of my back as if to get me moving again. I happily held on and let Eggy guide me until just before he was about to hoist me up onto the first step of the staircase.

 

“Oh! Wait. Wait, wait, wait!” I insisted, pulling away from Egbert long enough to shift my messenger bag around from where it was strapped behind my shoulder blade so I could paw through its contents. “I gotta give Bill The Cat his present!” It took a moment or two, but eventually I fished out the little square wrapped in green holiday paper and tossed it to the tile floor in front of the curious kitty. “Seasons compliments, Mr. Shakespaw.”

 

The cat was already sniffing interestedly at the small present, batting at it cautiously with the tip of one paw, his kitty head tilted to the right as if he was trying to understand such a strange anomaly.

 

“What the fuck are you giving my cat?” Brian asked, sounding a little worried.

 

“I thought you said he wasn’t YOUR cat - that he was just a stray?”

 

“Fine. What the fuck are you giving the stray cat who lives in my building?” 

 

“Drugs.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’m giving him drugs,” I repeated and then those damn giggles happened again and I was almost bent double with the hilarity only I - apparently - could see. 

 

“Justin, why are you giving my stray cat drugs? What did he ever do to you? Bill, leave that alone. Come here, Bill. Bill!” 

 

Brian started to bend over to pick up the package but right at that moment Bill hooked a claw through the wrapping paper and used the new leverage he had to toss the entire thing clear across the length of the lobby. Brian scuttled after the package but William was faster, darting through Brian’s legs to get to the present first. The cat then duplicated his prior feat and tossed his gift over Brian’s shoulder where it bounced off the wall and landed back at my feet. Bill scampered around his person’s feet yet again, following his new toy, where he finally stopped, crouching over the top of the package, and hissing loudly when Brian approached yet again.

 

When I’d stopped laughing and wiped the tears of glee from my eyes, I finally explained. “Calm yourself, Eggy. They’re good drugs. It’s just catnip. Bill will be fine. But I wouldn’t try to take it away from him if I were you. Not if you don’t want your skin shredded off by those claws.”

 

By that point Bill had used said claws to decimate the wrapping paper surrounding his gift and was licking and rubbing his head all over the burlap fabric of the toy. You could hear the purring even from several feet away. Yep, I’d clearly won Bill over with this gift. 

 

“Great. So now I’ll have an insane cat going nuts all over the place for the next week. Thanks a lot, Sunshine,” Brian grumbled, pretending to be upset, but I was already onto him and saw through that shit easily. 

 

“If you’re going to be mean and yell at me just for bringing your cat a Christmas present then I guess I’ll just take YOUR present and leave,” I threatened, shifting around as if I was about to head back towards the doors. 

 

Of course I wasn’t serious and I’d expected my hermit to make another sarcastic comment and then we’d laugh and it would all be jolly and happy and we’d go back up to his rooms and maybe - maybe - I’d get through his OCD enough to get a Christmas Kiss or something, and all would be copacetic. So imagine my confusion when Brian didn’t say anything to stop me from pretending to leave again. Nothing. In fact, not only did he say nothing but he sort of froze up and became super still and didn’t even move when I looked back to see what the fuck was going on. This wasn’t right. Where was the jovial banter? Where was the teasing? What had I done? Had I broken my poor Eggy somehow?

 

“Eggy? Brian? What’s wrong? Did I say something to piss you off?” I asked, looking up at him with concern.

 

He blinked, almost as if he was just then waking up or something, and looked at me with a hint of confusion in those beautimous hazel eyes of his. “Uh . . . Um . . . No. No, it’s nothing. I just . . .”

 

I’d never seen him be so lost for words before. Not even when he was struggling to explain to me about his OCD stuff. This was different somehow. More personal in a way? Not that I understood how that was possible, but that’s how it felt. And, damn it, I couldn’t even reach out and hug him the way I wanted, or take any other physical action to comfort him. 

 

“You know what? Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. Why don’t you spirit me away to your lair and let me get off this foot already so we can continue this conversation where I’m more comfortable?” I suggested with a flirty batting of my eyelashes. 

 

The eyelashes thing gets ‘em every time, so it wasn’t any surprise that this maneuver quickly brought the man around. With a little humorous snort, he nodded his head and gestured towards the stairs again, as if inviting me in. I took a couple of hobbling steps in that direction before Eggy took pity on me; he slipped one arm under my armpit and around my back and basically took all the weight off my bad foot as we carefully climbed the stairs in tandem. Before you knew it I had assumed my usual spot on his couch with my boot cast off, my foot up on his coffee table, and a pillow for cushioning underneath. 

 

“Ahhh! Thank fuck! That’s so much better. Damn I hate that fucking boot, but without it I’m trash, especially on stairs,” I sighed as the exhaustion of all that effort finally overcame me. Then I looked up at my hovering hermit and gave him my biggest, holidayest, smile. “So, ho ho ho, and all that jazz. Hope I’m not interrupting any holiday cheer over here. I just couldn’t bear staying at my dad’s any longer - did I mention that he’s a homophobic ass? - and I was hoping I could hide out here until I have to get up and go to my Mom’s for Part Two of the Holiday Horror show tomorrow morning.”

 

“Uh . . . Sure, I guess . . . I don’t really celebrate any holidays, though,” Egbert replied, looking around his rather barren looking rooms as if searching for the missing decorations.

 

“No problem. Trust me, if I’d wanted over-the-top decorations and pine-scented EVERYTHING, I’d have gone to my mother’s house. Did you know she even decorates the bathrooms with holiday shit? She has these special Christmas towels and little red and green covers for the spare toilet paper rolls that she puts on the back of the toilet tank. You can’t sneeze without knocking over some precious keepsake she’s got from her Great Aunt Louise or Grandma Marie’s crystal whatamacallit. I know she means well, but it’s exhausting,” I explained, getting a smile out of my man and hopefully putting him at ease at the same time. “I’d much rather spend the night here with my favorite stray cat, in my favorite oddly-shaped building, with my favorite recluse.”

 

“Exactly how hard did you hit your head the other day?” Brian asked with a shake of his head. 

 

“Huh?”

 

“You must be brain damaged or something if you’d rather spend Christmas Eve here,” he grumbled.

 

“Nope. No actual brain-damage. Promise. And I’ve got the MRI to prove it. Just a mild concussion and a sprained ankle. I’ll be good as new in no time,” I assured him. “But seriously, I’ve had to suffer through my mother’s Christmas obsession for nineteen years already and that’s more than enough to tide me over. Besides, I needed to come by here anyway to deliver my presents.”

 

“I’m sure William is grateful.”

 

“Right? Because, drugs!”

 

“My cat does not need drugs.”

 

“Nobody NEEDS drugs, but we all like them occasionally,” I assured him with a smug, worldly-wise smile. “But he’s not the only one who needs presents.” I picked up my messenger bag off the floor beside the couch and pulled out the other gift that I had waiting inside. “So, are you the kind of guy who likes to open presents on Christmas Eve or Christmas Morning?”

 

I held out the package towards Brian and waited but he just sat there staring at me like he didn’t understand what I’d said. Any normal human being would accept the gift, say thank you, and that would be that, right? Not my Eggy. Nope, he just looked confused. For a moment I thought maybe it was some OCD thing, like the package wasn’t clean or something, which, okay, I get. I hadn’t thought about that in advance. Damn. So, what should I do; should I just leave it on the table or should I go get one of his wet wipe things and try to disinfect the wrapping paper or something? 

 

While I was still puzzling over what to do, though, Brian interrupted my thoughts and added a whole ‘nother layer of fuckery to the situation. 

 

“I don’t know. I never had one before.”

 

So, what does one do with a statement like that? Can you say, ‘faux pas’? He’d never had one before? Never had a Christmas present? Like, ever? 

 

“Oops sorry . . . I didn’t think . . . So are you, like, Jewish or Buddhist or, I don’t know, Zoroastrian, or something?”

 

He frowned and waved off my bumbling question with all the dignity it deserved - namely, zero. “No, I’m nothing. I just . . . I’ve never . . . Never done that,” he explained, pointing towards the gaily wrapped Christmas present as if it was some kind of unknown, alien social convention that might prove fatal if taken the wrong way.

 

Luckily, I managed to bite my tongue before I said something really stupid and demeaning that would point out how incredible I found the fact that he’d apparently never had a Christmas present before. Because who was I to judge, right? Eggy and I were way, way, way too new to delve into something that deep. For all I knew there could be a thousand relatively benign reasons for him not to celebrate this particular holiday. And it wasn’t like I was even remotely religious or anything; my family was more into celebrating the tradition of the holiday (on my mother’s side) and the commercialism of the moment (my father). But still, Egbert’s almost-panic at being given a present was as worrying as it was endearing. It made me want to give him my present even more than before.

 

“Then I say it’s time to start a new tradition,” I suggested boldly. “Here. I can’t wait till morning, so you have to open it now.”

 

Brian very hesitantly took the package I was holding out and looked at it as if he didn’t know what to do next. I tried to wait as patiently as I could, giving him all the time he needed to work through whatever mental hurdles he was climbing over. Eventually he turned the package over and started to very carefully pick at the tape, trying not to rip the paper. I just smiled because I’d suspected he wasn’t the kind of present opener who just tore through the wrappings like a banshee. Of course, that meant I had to wait and wait to see whether or not he would like what I’d given him, and the anticipation was killing me, but I was hoping it would be worth it.

 

As soon as all the tape had been gently pried free, the wrapping paper fell open from the back of the gift, revealing a smallish, wooden box. The wood was painted ebony but I’d used old wood so the texture was rough and looked worn. Eggy sat and contemplated the box itself for a good minute or two and all the while I wanted to vault over the coffee table, pick it up and force him to look at the other side, but instead I literally sat on my hands so as to stop myself. Why was I always such a pushy bastard? Sheesh!

 

It was worth the wait though to see the surprise and awe that came over Brian’s face when he finally did turn the present around and looked at what was inside the box. 

 

The box itself wasn’t large - only about six inches square - but I’d managed to do a lot with such a small space. Inside the box, I’d mounted a strip of the film I’d used the first day I’d come around to take pictures of Brian’s building. I’d brought my old camera that day because I sometimes liked the contrast you got when using film versus digital photos. Of course, not all film photos turn out and you can’t just delete them and go on, like you do with digital pics, so you always end up with a bunch of unusable negatives. However, those unusable pieces of film make for great art in other contexts, hence my amazing shadow boxes. 

 

“Here . . .” I reached out and flipped the tiny switch that protruded from a hole in the back of the box and the whole thing lit up from inside, backlighting the strip of film I’d mounted in the shadow box to reveal a picture of the Triangle Building. I’d also layered other pieces of film around the main picture, as well as painting miniatures of Brian, William Shakespaw, and myself, all of which were added to the collage. Then, to top it all off, I’d talked a buddy of mine from TAIP who does glass sculpture stuff into etching the words from Peebles’ love letter - the one we’d found behind his drawing of the building - around the periphery of the glass covering the face of the box. 

 

“Match in strength and beauty the spiritual edifice we are building together . . .” Brian read the etched words that were lit up when the shadow box was illuminated. “Fuck! This is . . . This is art.”

 

“Well, duh! That’s what you get for pretty much all presents, forever, when you’ve got a resident artist on hand.” I spread my arms wide as if to put myself on display for him. “Making art is what I do, Eggy. Better get used to it.”

 

Brian moved some books out of the way and set the shadow box in a place of prominence on his bookcase and then sat down in the armchair adjacent to my couch where he could admire it from afar. The small lighted frame looked perfect amidst the assortment of hardbound books. I was quite proud of how it had turned out, to be honest. I was also gratified by how amazed my Eggy seemed by the relatively simple gift. 

 

“Thank you, Justin,” Eggy murmured quietly as we sat there, mutually admiring his new decoration. “I wish I had something to give you in return.”

 

“I’ll accept your everlasting admiration aannnndddd . . .” I pulled one more item out of my messenger bag of tricks and displayed it with a flourish, “. . . your company for a holiday toast?” Eggy smiled and nodded at the wine bottle I has holding up. “I stole it from my dad’s wine rack as I was heading out the door, so it’s probably really expensive and really good. Care to have a glass with me while I regale you with humorous stories about how horrible my evening was before I got here?”

 

“I think I can handle that,” Egbert surmised, getting up to find some wine glasses, rewashing them after he took them out of the cupboard, fishing a corkscrew out of a drawer, and then joining me on my couch. 

 

After which we spent the rest of the evening sipping our wine, talking, and laughing together. Bill The Cat even joined in on the little party after a bit, crawling into his person’s lap and falling immediately into a post-catnip doze. We talked about everything and nothing and it was absolutely the MOST pleasurable Christmas Eve I could remember in a long, long time. 

 

And, I noted quietly to myself later, Brian hadn’t felt the need to sterilize the gift I’d given him or the bottle of wine we were passing back and forth all evening long, so maybe there was hope for progress after all.

  
**********

 

Chapter Music Selection -  [ Back To You by Selena Gomez ](https://youtu.be/VY1eFxgRR-k) . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4/5/19 - Special Thanks to SandiD for artistic advice on what type present Justin would give Brian! Also, please forgive me if this chapter doesn’t have SunshineSally’s panache - she’s been feeling under the weather so I had to slog through this chapter mostly on my own - which was doubly annoying because I didn’t feel like writing a Christmas scene in April, but wtf, right? Hope it’s not too bad. And, I promise that we’ll be moving on plot wise next chapter! Back to the tunnels! Yay! TAG


	22. How Far We've Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the plot . . . Yay! Enjoy! TAG & Sally.

  
  


Chapter 22 - How Far We’ve Come.

  
  


I was awakened on Christmas morning by way of a slightly damp, well-slobbered-on, catnip-filled sachet being dropped on my face by an extremely happy Bill The Cat. He was sitting on my chest purring at me with what I could have sworn was a smile on his kitty face. I batted away the smelly cat toy. Bill meowed and chased after his present.

 

I figured I’d had worse Christmas mornings. 

 

I sat up, stretched, and looked out the window of Eggy’s guest room, pleasantly surprised to find the winter sun shining brightly. I know people get all sentimental about having a ‘white Christmas’ and all, but not me. I’ve never been much of a snow guy. Not even back when I was a kid; I was one of those horribly nerdy kids who liked school and therefore hated snow days. Personally, I think snow should stay where it belongs - out in the countryside and up in the mountains at ski lodges, where it can be picturesque as fuck without causing traffic accidents - leaving our city streets alone. So I was perfectly fine with a sunny, clear, ice-free holiday. 

 

I limped to the bathroom, did my morning business while still half asleep, and by the time I was done I could smell the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee coming down the hall. My hermit was awake! Time to go track that man down and see if I could finagle a Christmas Morning Kiss!

 

I padded down the hall and in through the open door to his rooms to find Brian staring into the maw of his refrigerator. He looked up when I cleared my throat, giving me what seemed like a worried smile. Now, what the fuck could he possibly be worried about this early in the morning? And how could I take away that frown line creasing his forehead?   
  


“Ho, ho, ho and a Merry Morning to you, Eggy! Did I smell coffee?” He tilted his head in the direction of the coffee maker so I enthusiastically helped myself. “Mmmmm. I really needed that.” Poor Egbert was still looking into his fridge so I decided to help. “Something I can help you with there? Or are you just trying to run up your electricity bill for no reason?”

 

With a little more teasing, Brian admitted that he’d been trying to figure out whether or not he could safely cook us something nice for breakfast. I suggested that it would probably be less dangerous if I took over food preparation and Brian gratefully let me. But when I opened the fridge again, I was surprised at how much food I found there - the last time I’d looked, there hadn’t been anything besides the bagels & cream cheese Brian subsisted on along with a case of beer. This morning, however, I found eggs, imported European cheddar cheese, even some veggies. It was truly a Christmas Miracle!

 

“Were you planning a party that you didn’t invite me to, Egbert?”

 

“What? No. Don’t be ridiculous,” Brian scoffed. “I just . . . You’re always sleeping over and I got tired of you bitching about there never being any food, so I figured I better stock up.” He shrugged and tried to look completely unconcerned, but I was onto him. “So you better eat up before it all rots and I’m out a shit ton of money for wasted food.”

 

“You are seriously the sweetest hermit I’ve ever met!” I insisted, setting the carton of eggs and the brick of cheese on his counter before walking over to where Brian was standing while he supervised my efforts. “Prepare yourself, Eggy, because I’m going to kiss you now,” I warned. And, getting no complaints, I followed through on my threat by lifting onto my toes, wrapping my arm around the back of his neck, and pulling his lips down to meet my own. “Thank you for caring enough to feed me.”

 

So there was kissing. Quite a lot of kissing actually. Enough kissing that I almost forgot about breakfast for several long minutes. And it was so good and fulfilling; I loved the way Eggy would nibble at my lips as if he was feeding off my kisses. It somehow surpassed even the more animalistic kissing episodes I’d had with prior men despite being relatively restrained; this was better because it was my own private recluse doing the kissing and I knew how much harder it was for him to open himself up like that. So I let him nibble at me and I nibbled back at him until things got to the point where I knew I’d better stop before I lost control of my nibbling, and my better judgement, and ate him whole. 

 

“Best Christmas morning ever!” I enthused as I finally pulled away. As soon as my lips were no longer engaged, though, my stomach let out an insistent growl just to remind me what it was that started this whole kissing thing. “Oops. Guess we should get back to business here. How about omelets?”

 

We quickly combined efforts to get our holiday feast cooked and laid out. I did most of the actual cooking while Brian took care of disinfecting all the dishes, surfaces, and other appurtenances, made the toast, and then set us up on his little coffee table. It was cozy but so, so nice. Why was it that eating hastily whipped up eggs and toast, while sitting on the floor with Eggy, and without a single holiday decoration in sight, felt so much more festive than any multiple course meal served on silver platters at a formal dining table that had been decorated by professional caterers? Maybe it was the company that made it feel more holiday-ish? Whatever, I was allowed to enjoy myself wherever, right? In the end I decided not to overanalyze it and to just let the enjoyment happen. 

 

Also, it wasn’t exactly true that there wasn’t a single decoration. There was one thing there. Okay, technically two, if you wanted to count. But Brian didn’t notice my decorative contribution until a good ten minutes into our breakfast - probably due to how mesmerizing my personality was, right? - and when he did, he almost choked on the bite of toast he’d been attempting. 

 

“Uh, Sunshine, “ Brian gulped loudly. “Why are your dirty, old socks hanging off my nice, clean bookcase?” he asked worriedly. 

 

“Because you don’t have a fireplace,” I replied.

 

“What, exactly, does my lack of a fireplace have to do with your dirty socks being draped over my furniture?”

 

I huffed with exasperation - I mean, who was this guy that didn’t know about hanging up stockings on Christmas? Granted, usually this tradition involved ornamental stockings and not the pair of dress socks I’d worn the day before, but beggars can’t be choosers, right? I had done the best I could with what I’d had on hand. Well, make that ‘on foot’. Sheesh. I guess Brian wasn’t just joking about never having done Christmas before. 

 

Instead of trying to explain, I got up to my feet and limped over to the bookcase - I hadn’t bothered with the boot cast that morning so I was a little slow and awkward - retrieving the socks so I could bring them back to the table with me. Brian looked as though he might be sick when I set them down next to my plate. I was sure there would be a shit ton of disinfecting going on soon. Whatever. First there would be presents. 

 

“Hold out your hands,” I directed him, shaking my head at the cringing way he tentatively complied. “I promise you’ll like this . . . and you won’t have to actually touch my sock . . . unless you want to of course.” I loved teasing him. 

 

He scrunched up his nose and shook his head. I guess that was a firm ‘no’. 

 

When Eggy’s hands were in place, I upended the fuller of the two socks over his palms, allowing the contents to slither out. Brian ended up with a palmful comprised of one orange, a few assorted candies, and a small grey box tied up with a grey ribbon.

 

“You must have been a very good little boy this year, Eggy. Look what Santa brought you,” I teased as I emptied my own stocking. Mine contained another orange and lots more candy but no gift box. “Mmmm. Apparently I was a good boy too.”

 

“What the actual fuck? Who puts food in their socks?” Brian asked, still looking at the items he was holding as if they were potentially contaminated with plague germs - okay, so I suppose I hadn’t thought this part out very well.

 

“Stop being difficult and open your gift,” I ordered, trying to distract him before he totally wigged out.

 

I could tell it was killing him to not be able to wipe his hands off after all this, but he was trying to brave it out. Damn he was getting good at this. Maybe all my crazy, unpredictable ways - up to and including putting presents in dirty socks - were good for him after all? Who knew? But, after only a moment or two of hesitating, he set the small gift box down on the table and started to undo the ribbon holding it closed. 

  
  


Once the lid was lifted, it revealed a small cube made up of two-hundred-some small magnetic beads. Each bead was tinted in various bright, primary colors and, when assembled, they made up a whole rainbow. You could take them apart and reassemble them in any way or shape you liked, making the toy just about the most amazing time waster ever invented. It wasn’t much of a gift, really, but back before I’d hurt my ankle, Daph and I had been out shopping one day and got caught up looking at a display of fidget spinners and other gadgets. Daphne had mentioned that stuff like that would be great for my OCD recluse since they helped provide a positive outlet for stress, giving the brain something physical to focus on rather than the rituals and intrusive thoughts he would otherwise be dealing with. So I’d happily shelled out the few bucks in my wallet for the little toy. What the fuck, right? If he hated it, I figured I could play with it when I came to visit. 

 

“But . . . you already gave me a present,” was Brian’s only comment.

 

“So? Something tells me you’ve been extra good this year,” I winked. 

 

Brian scoffed loudly at my comment, like that was so far from the truth he couldn’t believe it, which broke my heart a little and was something I would have to come back to at a later point. 

 

“A guy’s allowed more than one present,” I countered. “Especially if he’s making up for lost time in the present-receiving department.”

 

“I . . . Damn it . . .” Brian cursed me before stomping off, out of the room, leaving me totally confused by whatever had just happened. When he came back a minute later, he was carrying a large, oblong package wrapped in what looked like cut up paper shopping bags under his arm. “Take it,” he ordered, practically dropping the heavy object in my lap.

 

“You got me a present? Awww, Eggy! You really didn’t have to,” I gushed while trying to maneuver the bulky package around. “Wow! It’s really hefty.” 

 

While I struggled with the unwieldy parcel, Eggy stood nearby, fidgeting and agitated. I really hadn’t been angling for any present in return from him. The shadow box thing had just sorta come about organically as I was going through the leftovers from my school project; I hadn’t started off with the idea of making it specifically for Brian, but when it was done I knew I wanted him to have it. And the little toy was even more of an afterthought. So, getting a present back was truly a welcome surprise, especially since Eggy hadn’t known I was coming over the night before.

 

It didn’t take me long to begin tearing off the paper the gift was entombed within - I wasn’t one of those finicky unwrappers, I just ripped right in - and I could immediately tell it was a piece of art by the corner of the frame that emerged first. But it wasn’t until I’d pulled all the paper off that I realized what Egbert had given me. It was the beautiful Henry Fitch Taylor painting that I’d been admiring in his conference room the day we discovered the hidden staircase. 

 

“Oh, Brian! I . . . I can’t take this. It’s way too much! This painting should probably be in the damned Smithsonian, for fuck sake, not my grubby little utility apartment,” I insisted, trying to get to my feet so I could hand the painting back to him although, what with my wonky ankle, that was an almost hopeless effort. “Thank you so much, but I just can’t accept.”

 

“Bullshit! You said you liked it, so it’s yours. I have, like, a million old moldy paintings in this place; I sure as hell don’t need it,” Brian insisted stubbornly. 

 

“But this painting is worth a LOT more than my little art project, Eggy. Are you sure you don’t want to rethink this?” Brian shook his head at me waved his hand dismissively like it was silly of me to even try and demur. “Okay, but . . . I seriously have nowhere to hang something like this. How about this - you can just keep it here for me in your conference room for the time being and if I ever do get a nicer place to live, I’ll take it with me then. Okay?”

 

Brian seemed to weigh that option for a minute, on the verge of disagreeing, but then I did my eyelash batting thing at him and he caved. Thank fuck for being blond, amirite? Having won my compromise, I carefully set the painting aside, climbed to my feet and limped over to give him a thank you kiss, which he graciously accepted. Did I mention how good Eggy was getting at the kissing thing? I would have been proud if I wasn’t so distracted by his lips and the way his beard tickled and the smell of his cologne and . . . well, pretty much everything about this enticing man was distracting, to be honest, but distracting in an oh-so-good way.

 

Needless to say I was a little miffed when our gift-inspired make out session was interrupted by the ringing of my phone. Who was calling me on Christmas morning? I sighed, gave Eggy’s bottom lip one last nibble, and then pulled my phone out of my pocket. A glance at the screen showed that my caller was one Daphne Chanders - okay, so that made sense, I guess, because she probably just got home from her overnight shift at the hospital and freaked at finding me gone. 

 

“Where are you? You’re not supposed to be galavanting all over on that ankle, you know,” she barked at me the minute I said ‘hello’. 

 

“Merry Christmas to you too, Daphne,” I replied acerbically. 

 

“Don’t Merry Christmas me, you little asshole. Why isn’t your invalid ass in bed where it belongs?”

 

“I’m fine, Daph. I had to go to my dad’s last night for the usual hoopla and afterwards I had the driver drop me off at Egbert’s instead of going home. We’re just having breakfast and opening presents - which you interrupted, by the way.”

 

“Oh. Well, okay,” Daph sounded like that had taken the wind out of her sails pretty effectively. “How’d he like your box thingy?”

 

“How’d you like the box thingy, Eggy?” I relayed Daphne’s question to the man standing next to me.

 

“It’s not bad,” Brian responded with typical understatement and a smile hidden in his bushy beard.

 

“Hear that, Daph? ‘Not bad’.”

 

“High praise indeed,” she laughed through the phone speaker. “So, are you still going to your mom’s for brunch and, if so, do you need me to pick you up on my way to my ‘rents?”

 

“That would be great, Daph,” I gratefully accepted. “Otherwise, I’d have to shell out for a cab and that could be difficult on Christmas Day.”

 

She confirmed she would be over to pick me up in about an hour and hung up. 

 

“Now, where were we?” I asked my kissing companion.

  
  


“That’ll be Daphne to pick me up,” I announced when my phone began to buzz an hour or so later. 

 

In the interim, Egbert and I had finished our breakfast, dressed, and then spent most of the rest of the time cleaning up. I had assisted him in the cleaning efforts, although I’m not sure how much help I’d been. He seemed to think he had to clean up after my cleaning up, so it probably just made more work for him, but I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing while Brian scrubbed and disinfected the whole apartment. He did seem quite grateful when I finally removed the socks I’d used in lieu of Christmas stockings - yeah, I might never live that one down. But eventually even Eggy ran out of things to clean.

 

So, when Daph texted that she had arrived, we were ready for her. Brian helped me down the stairs - did I mention that we really needed to talk about him relocating to a lower floor or else putting in an elevator - and opened the door for the newest person to invade his solitary tower. Daphne bounced in and offered up seasons greetings to us both with her usual bubbliness. Brian was being very brave and trying to act all nonchalant about having this stranger in his building, but I could tell how antsy it was making him even though, so far, Daphne hadn’t ventured further than the lobby. It was a start though, right?

 

“So, when do I get a glimpse of that mystery room in your basement that Justin’s told me all about? You do realize he’s in love with your building, right?” Daphne kidded Brian, presumably just to try and lighten the mood, but in the process hitting on a bit of a sore spot for my poor, insecure hermit. “Although, I don’t think the building alone is what keeps bringing him back here.” Daphne added a wink directed towards Brian as if to include him in on the joke.

 

“I . . . uh . . .” Brian stuttered, apparently caught off guard by Daphne’s forwardness.

 

I jumped into the conversation in an effort to spare my poor befuddled boyfriend. “The hidden room is pretty cool, though. I just keep thinking there’s got to be some mystery behind it. I mean, why else would you hide it behind a fake wall and all? I just wish I hadn’t hurt myself before I managed to figure out where that damn tunnel leads.”

 

“Yeah, well, I’m not letting you go back down there alone, Twat. With your luck, the whole fucking ceiling will collapse on your head next time,” Brian warned with a stern look. 

 

“Justin HAS always been a bit accident prone. You wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve had to drive him to the urgent care over the years,” Daph commented, prompting me to swat her in the gut with a well-aimed back hand. “But if you want, I could always go with him next time he goes exploring. I’m usually able to mitigate the worst of his crazy ideas.”

 

“Hah! As if you weren’t the instigator of at least fifty percent of those ‘crazy ideas’ yourself,” I shot back at her and we both broke out laughing. “But that’s not actually a bad idea, Daph. I know you don’t care much for the basement, let alone the tunnel, Eggy, but Daph and I could at least check it out and hopefully reassure you that the tunnel doesn’t lead to anywhere unsafe. In fact, we could do it right now - I don’t have to be to my mom’s until 1:00pm, so we technically have time. You up for a short exploratory mission, Daph?”

 

Brian immediately cautioned with an, “I don’t know,” at the same time Daphne erupted with an enthusiastic, “YES!”.

 

I’d already started to tug Eggy over towards the door that would let us into the empty pizza place, though, so his objections mostly went unacknowledged. Me on a mission means no stopping and damn your logical concerns. Don’t hate me for my enthusiasm, okay?

 

And before Brian could even fully enunciate his qualms about me once again venturing into the spooky tunnel under his building, I had dragged Daphne down the basement steps, shown her the tricky latch mechanism with the offset brick, and hobbled into the secret room. Brian followed behind us, reluctantly, but seemingly unable to let us go on our own. He hovered just inside the doorway to the hidden room, shuffling his feet nervously and looking worried. He was concerned enough, actually, to come over and grab my shoulder as I was pulling open the door to the tunnel.

 

“Are you sure you should be doing this with your ankle like that,” he asked, pointing to the bulky boot cast that admittedly slowed me down a little. “I’m not sure my liability insurance can handle you getting hurt again.”

 

“I’ll be fine, Brian. I promise. And this time I even have Daphne with me as backup.”

 

”Surprisingly that doesn’t make feel any better . . .”

 

“I know. But maybe, in the end, this will help you worry less. I mean, if we find that the tunnel just dead ends in a blank wall or something, won’t you feel better about it all?”

 

He shrugged, which I took as tacit permission to carry on. I gave his hand a last squeeze, hoping that it would reassure him without freaking him out because of the unsolicited touching, and then nodded to Daphne to indicate I was good to go. Daph and I both took out our phones to use as flashlights and we set off. Brian stayed where he was in the doorway, watching and looking worried and so damn adorable that I had to force myself to turn away from him so I didn’t trip again.

 

This time, though, I was much more careful of the debris on the uneven floor. Even so, Daphne kept one hand under my elbow to prop me up. The tunnel appeared to be heading roughly northwest, which would take us on a long diagonal underneath Liberty Avenue heading towards the intersection with 9th Street. We quickly made it past the one spot with the biggest pile of rubble and after that the walking was a lot easier. It helped that it was daylight out for this attempt, meaning that there was at least a little light coming into the tunnel through the couple of skylights positioned in the ceiling above our heads. Even so it was dank and musty and the air was thick with brick dust, causing both of us to sneeze occasionally. When we were about halfway down, we both got a little freaked as what felt like a large truck rumbled down the road over our heads and shook the whole tunnel. Luckily the walls held despite the shower of dirt raining down on our heads and, after the trembling from above stopped, we carried on.

  
  


As we passed under the first skylight, both Daph and I tried to look up to see if we could confirm where we were. Unfortunately, the glass bricks that made up the skylight were far too scratched and occluded by dirt to allow us to see anything. Just as we were about to move on, a person-shaped shadow momentarily passed by the light source, dimming our tunnel for the moment, before moving on. This confirmed my suspicion that the skylight was part of the sidewalk along Liberty Avenue and that we must, by then, be somewhere under the walkways lining the north side of the street. 

 

Within only a half-dozen meters beyond the first skylight, there was another, this one illuminating a leftward bend in the tunnel. Judging by my knowledge of the street layout in the area, and estimating the distance back to where the tunnel began to be somewhere around 60-65 meters, I surmised that the first skylight was probably located in the sidewalk on the north side of Liberty Avenue and that the second was situated on the east side of 9th Avenue, with the tunnel below cutting across the diagonal of that street corner. The bend in the tunnel wasn’t quite a full ninety degree turn - more like one hundred twenty, if I were to judge it - so that would mean that it continued roughly west by southwest, following generally parallel to Liberty Avenue and taking us underneath the block of buildings between 9th Street and Tito Way, or what used to be known as 8th Street. In my head, I was tracking our progress on a mental map as we continued, trying to match up our position with the buildings I knew were above, but it got a little more difficult after we turned that bend because there weren’t any more skylights so it made it harder to judge distances. 

  
  


The second half of the tunnel was in a lot better condition than the first half. There was a lot less debris on the floor and the plastering on the walls was pretty much intact. This meant our progress was even faster for this leg of the journey. We made it down the length of this section in only a couple minutes. This section was about the same length as the first part, so maybe another 60 meters or so, and at the end we could clearly see that there was another door just like the one that led into Eggy’s building. Along the right hand side of the tunnel, we found at least two spots where it looked like other doorways had been bricked in, which made sense if these tunnels had been more widely used in the past - something that seemed plausible considering how elaborate and extensive the tunnels were. But what we hadn’t expected to see, and what only became clear once we were almost up to the door, was that the tunnel branched off yet again, with another bend angling away leftward and heading directly south. 

 

“Shit! How many tunnels are there under the streets of Pittsburgh,” Daphne echoed my own thoughts perfectly.

 

“I don’t know, but I don’t think Eggy’s going to like what we’ve found. He’s going to freak out big time when I tell him that the tunnel doesn’t just end around the corner.” Daphne was nodding sympathetically at the same time she was trying to tamp down the enthusiasm for adventure that we were both feeling. “So, shall we see where this door leads or continue down the tunnel further?”

 

“I say we try the door first,” she chose, stepping away from my side and reaching out to grab the knob with a mischievous glint in her big brown eyes. 

  
  


**********

Chapter Music Selection -  [ How Far We've Come by Matchbox Twenty ](https://youtu.be/5d7EbtLb8ok) . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4/11/19 - Thank you to 4depthoflove for the suggestion of the magnetic stress balls for Brian’s stocking. Thank goodness we got through the Christmas in July stuff (necessary for character development but not as fun as the mystery tunnel stuff) and can move on with all that plotty goodness we’ve been saving up. So, any guesses from you readers about where the tunnel leads or what they’ll find at the end? Let the speculation begin! TAG & Sally.


	23. History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psych! LOL. TAG

 

Chapter 23 - History.

 

“Justin? Justin, Daphne, are you fucking idiots okay? Justin!” Brian’s voice echoing as it bounced off the bare plaster and brick walls of the tunnels carried pretty well considering the distance we’d come. “Answer me, damn it, or I’m fucking calling emergency services to come rescue your asses!”

Daphne and I both chuckled and shook our heads indulgently. 

 

“He’s so freaking out,” I commented. “Poor Eggy.”

 

“Poor, sweet, totally romantic, Eggy, who is apparently already so into you that he can’t bear to have you out of his sight,” Daphne teased quietly.

 

“I’m not fucking kidding, Justin! What the hell are you guys doing down there anyway? Answer me now!” There was a palpable edge of panic in Brian’s voice this time, meaning I really did need to answer him.

 

“Hang on a sec, Eggy. We found something!” I yelled back down the tunnel in Brian’s direction, hoping that would reassure him.

 

Meanwhile, Daphne had already tried the doorknob without any luck. She rattled the handle and tried to force it to turn using both hands, but nothing. I pushed her aside, eager to see if my Burglar skills would work any better, but even when I did my lift-and-twist-while-kicking-the-door maneuver, the damned thing didn’t budge. 

 

“Fuck whatever you found. That’s enough damn exploring for one day. Time to get your asses back here already!” Eggy demanded, his voice getting louder and louder as his anxiety ramped up.

 

“I think I’d better get back to him, Daph,” I suggested. “It sounds like he’s getting really wigged and I don’t want to completely freak him out. We’ll have to come back and try this door again another time.”

 

“Yeah, I think that’s probably wise,” Daph conceded, giving the unyielding door one last shake. “Too bad though - I’m majorly curious about whatever’s behind this door. What do you think is in there?”

 

As she spoke, Daphne leaned down and put her eye to the keyhole, but of course she couldn’t see anything because whatever was behind that door was waiting in the pitch dark. I lowered my phone, trying to help her out as best I could by directing the flashlight under the bottom edge of the door where I had noticed a small gap between the wooden door and the stone sill. Just as I moved the phone closer to the door, though, there was a *ping* and a pop-up window appeared on the screen asking me if I wanted to connect to the Crazy Mocha WIFI, my usual coffee stop here abouts. 

 

“Huh. Look at this,” I showed the phone to Daphne when she gave up trying to spy through the old-time lock. “We must be right below the coffee shop to be picking up this signal.”

 

“Cool. So at least we know which building the door leads into. I wonder if the Crazy Mocha people know that they have a tunnel in their basement or if it’s hidden the same way the entrance from Brian’s building was hidden? I mean, you’d think that they would have bricked it off like all those other doorways we passed by if they did know about it. I can’t imagine any property owner wanting to leave access to these tunnels open in definitely, can you?”

 

“Justin! If your ass isn’t back here in two minutes I really AM going to call for emergency help!” Brian screamed down the tunnel at us.

 

“Come on, Daph. We have to get back before my poor Egbert blows a gasket. We’ll figure this door out later,” I ordered and tugged at my friend’s sleeve to get her moving in the right direction. “We’re coming, Egbert. Don’t get your panties in a twist!” I hollered to my favorite worrywort. 

 

Returning to Egbert’s Lair was easy and, since we already knew where we were going, it didn’t take us as long to get back as it had to get to the unknown doorway. As soon as we turned around the bend in the tunnel, I could see Brian hovering in the entryway, his bulk blocking out what little light filtered through from the basement. Even from that distance, and without much light, I could tell he was really worried about me judging by the set of his shoulders. Am I forgiven for feeling a small jolt of pleasure at knowing how protective and upset he was over me? I know it’s mean to enjoy your boyfriend freaking out, but come on, he was freaking out about ME. Because he obviously cared about ME. Wasn’t that justification for being a little bit happy over his distress? 

 

When Brian finally saw us coming, he even went so far as to take a few steps out into the tunnel itself, the brave boy. I tried to hobble faster on my gimp foot so I could reach him sooner. And when I finally did, my guy immediately reached out, grabbed me, and pulled me into his chest for a bone-crushing hug. I could feel him trembling slightly as I clung to him almost as strongly. You’d think Daph and I had traveled to the ends of the earth and back, not just a few dozen meters away. But it was good to be missed.

 

“So, did you find the end of the tunnel?” Brian asked as he ushered us back inside and immediately slammed the tunnel door closed.

 

“Not exactly,” I hedged.

 

Unfortunately, Daphne didn’t understand my hesitation on the subject and launched directly into a full explanation of how we not only found another doorway but also that the tunnel continued on even further than we’d expected into the unknown. Brian was weirded out enough by this news that he personally pushed the big chest of drawers over so it was blocking the door; this in spite of the fact that touching the dusty old piece of furniture was probably setting off his OCD something crazy. It would have been useless to reason with him or point out how it was pretty evident from the rubble down there that nobody had been through the tunnels in ages. I kinda wished I didn’t have to leave to get to my mom’s so I could stay and protect him from whatever onslaught he imagined would be coming through the tunnel. Alas, time was not on my side that day.

 

“Shit! Look at the time,” Daphne exclaimed as soon as we got back to the lighted part of the basement. “We better book or we’ll be ridiculously late for the ‘rents.”

 

“Yeah. Sorry to explore and run, big guy,” I apologized to Egbert, who was just then helping my limping ass up the basement stairs. “I wish I didn’t have to go, but this is the one holiday that my Mom loves more than any other, so attendance is mandatory.”

 

Egbert simply shrugged, as if he’d never expected me to stay anyway. And maybe he hadn’t. I mean, the guy WAS a confirmed hermit, after all, so I’m pretty sure he was used to having plenty of alone time. But that didn’t mean I felt good just scarpering off like I was. Unfortunately, family commitments and all that . . .

 

We finally reached the main lobby doors and I picked up my bag from where I’d left it waiting in the corner. I turned towards Brian and offered an apologetic smile. He gave me a bushy smile in return. Damn his hairy beauty; it made it so tough to leave. Maybe I could just stay here and continue staring like a moonstruck twat all day instead?

 

“Oh, come on already, Romeo,” Daph complained, grabbing my elbow and forcibly pulling me out the door. “You two can gaze longingly at each other another day. I’ve got a honeybaked ham and presents to get to.” I hobbled sideways in her determined wake, with a little wave goodbye to the man standing in the entryway door. “Bye, Brian!” Daphne yelled over her shoulder as she dragged me towards where her car was parked a little way down the block. “Merry Christmas!”

  
  


By Wednesday I’d finally reached the stage where I felt confident in foregoing the boot cast again. I still had a soft ankle brace on, but other than that I felt fully mobile once more. Good thing too, since I had a shift at the Diner scheduled for that afternoon and I didn’t want to call off for another day; I’d already missed two shifts that week. So much for my plan to work enough over the holiday break to pay for some extras that my father wouldn’t let me buy for the next semester at school. Oh well, best laid plans and all. 

 

Deb made a big deal out of my limping into work and gave me the easiest jobs all that afternoon. I admit, I may have hammed it up a little in order to maximize the sympathy I was getting, as well as the tips. The customers apparently felt they needed to pony up more than usual for the poor injured waif, and I was just fine with that. Hey, I’m not too proud to make a buck in whatever way I can, provided it’s legal, of course. 

 

So, after a lighter than usual day, I still had plenty of energy left when I was done at the Diner for a trip to see my favorite stylite. I hopped the next bus heading west and jumped off a few minutes later at the stop that left me across from the Triangle Building, right in front of the coffee shop. Of course, Crazy Mocha now had even more interest for me - besides just their crazy good menu of interesting coffee drinks - because I knew that they were hiding something mysterious in their basement. That’s probably why, this time, I took a moment to stop before I went in and actually read the historical plaque that was affixed to the building.

 

So, it seemed that this building was even older than my Triangle Building and that, for at least part of its history, it was a hotel: The Hotel Liberty to be precise. That was interesting. So, why would Peebles want to connect his new office building to a nearby hotel? I could sense more historical research in my future. 

 

But, in the meantime, I went inside the coffee shop and ordered my usual latte along with a Caramel Macchiato for my hermit. Bill The Cat, of course, would get the two extra creamers I pocketed while I was waiting for my order. And, because it wasn’t very busy that afternoon, I even had time to engage the sales clerk in some conversation while her barista buddy was making my drinks. 

 

I introduced myself by saying I was working on an architecture project for school and asked the pretty young woman with the shocking neon-pink hair if the coffee shop had access to the basement of the building. “I know it’s a strange question to ask, but I recently found out that some of the buildings along this stretch of Liberty used to be connected via tunnels and I just wondered if you guys had access to that through the basement. Maybe I could even go down and have a quick look?”

 

“Sorry. We only lease the ground floor space,” the girl replied. “I did get a bit of a look around in the basement one time when there was a plumbing leak and the building management had to let us in so our plumbers could fix shit. I don’t remember seeing any tunnels or anything though. All that’s down there is a small utility area with HVAC equipment and stuff. It’s not even a full basement.”

 

Okay. So, assuming that there WAS a room behind the door under this building, it didn’t sound like any of the building’s residents knew it was there. Which made me think that whatever was down there was hidden, just like the room in Eggy’s basement. But why hide the rooms and tunnels . . . unless, maybe, they were put there for some type of illicit purpose? Curiouser and curiouser. 

 

I thanked Pinkie and took my coffee order with me back across the street, still caught up in my mind by the Mystery of Liberty Avenue. 

 

I was glad I’d texted Eggy earlier to warn him I was on my way over, because it meant the lobby door was unlocked when I arrived, and I didn’t have to put down the coffees to pull my burglar routine. In fact, William was already waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, his tail switching expectantly as he mewled at me, demanding I open his creamers for him forthwith. Pushy pussy. I was equally unsurprised to find the cat’s person waiting, sitting on the stairs just a meter or two up from the lobby, when I was done feeding my feline friend and turned in that direction. 

 

“And so the Prodigal Burglar returns,” Brian teased with a smirk.

 

“Hey, the door was unlocked!” I pointed out. “I didn’t break in this time, so you can’t call me a burglar.”

 

“Doesn’t matter - you’re still a burglar at heart.”

 

“Would a burglar bring you coffee?” I asked, climbing up the few steps necessary to allow me to wave Eggy’s drink below his nose, intending to entice him with the delicious aroma. 

 

“Looks like your ankle is better,” Egbert pointed out, probably to distract me from the fact that he hadn’t even attempted to take the cup from me.

 

I was so onto him. “It’s getting there. But enough about my ankle, Eggy. Take your coffee already and then give me a nice ‘welcome back’ kiss so I know you missed me,” I ordered.

 

I’d expected a snarky reply but instead I just got a shy smile. I was soooooo wearing Brian down! He sighed and rubbed his palms against his thighs, up and down a few times, but then he actually reached out and took the paper coffee cup out of my hand, sniffing at the contents with appreciation. Wow! Big progress there! In my head I was cheering him on, chanting, ‘go, Eggy, go!’. But I was careful not to let that show on the outside, merely smiling, closing my eyes, and tilting my head back slightly so as to give the man better access to my exaggeratedly puckered lips. When I felt the tentative scratchiness of a long beard against my cheek, I knew I’d won. A second later the warm lips were pressing against my own and I happily returned the greeting. I was elated at how far we’d come in such a relatively short period of time and I let my man know it through the medium of my enthusiastic kisses.

 

Somewhere amidst all that kissing fun I’d apparently knelt on the stair riser in front of where Eggy was sitting, so as to obtain more leverage for my lip work, which meant that the pain in my knees from that hard surface ended up being what brought an end to our makeout session. I pulled back with a little moan of protest and used his knees to help steady myself as I got back to my feet. Then I almost dove right back in for more when I noticed the bee-stung look of his well-kissed lips. This man was fucking addictive. Thank fuck there was still a small spark of caution whispering in the the back of my brain to remind me to take things slow, otherwise I might have just taken him right there and then on the stairs.

 

“Stop trying to seduce me out of the purpose for my visit, Eggy,” I chided him with a wink. “Despite all the evidence to the contrary, I didn’t come over here just to kiss you.” He looked at me skeptically. “Well, okay, that was part of it, but not the ONLY reason. I also wanted to raid your grandfather’s library again to research those tunnels.”

 

“Not more of the fucking tunnels, please,” Brian complained. “Can’t we just conveniently forget they even exist? I, for one, was much happier when I didn’t know there was a damned tunnel to nowhere in my fucking basement, Sunshine.”

 

“Awww, come on, Eggy. You gotta admit this whole mystery thing is interesting, right?” He frowned at me and shook his head ‘no’. “Well, I disagree. I’m curious as fuck. I want to find out why the hell Peebles would go to the trouble of hiding a staircase and a room in his building and why that hidden room connects via hidden tunnels to at least one other building. A building, I might add, that was operated as a Hotel. Doesn’t that seem odd? I mean, yeah, I can see connecting your fancy new office building to a nearby hotel for the convenience of your tenants - they might want to stay there or at least have meals there, right? - but why HIDE the connecting tunnel? That’s the part that makes no sense.”

 

“You’re not going to ever let this go, are you?” He asked me with a little sub-vocal grumble of disapproval. 

 

I shook my head and shrugged.

 

“Fuck . . .” Brian got to his feet as well, finally unblocking the stairwell. “You’re annoyingly persistent. You know that, right?”

 

“Yep! Always have been. It’s part of my charm.”

 

Brian didn’t reply other than to shift over, closer to the wall, so that I could get around him, and gesture with one hand to indicate I was welcome to go up. I gave him one of my best smiles as I accepted his invitation. I could hear his footsteps following right behind me on the stairs, so I knew he couldn't be too annoyed by me. I sooooo had him figured out. I’m just that good.

 

Instead of stopping at Brian’s rooms, I went straight to the door at the end of the hall that I knew led into the office. Eggy trailed quiescently behind without comment. I dumped my messenger bag on the floor next to the larger of the two comfortable armchairs and turned to the bookcase where I remembered there were several historical reference books.

 

“Wasn’t there a book here that had a history of the founding fathers of Pittsburgh . . .” Brian reached over my shoulder and picked the exact volume out of the line of books where it lived, depositing the book in my hands like the helpful hermit he was. “Thank you, Eggy. Now we just have to find out who owned the Hotel Liberty and what his connection was to Peebles . . .”

 

Luckily, our research didn’t take long at all. The Hotel Liberty had been pretty well known back in the day. And so was it’s owner, B.F. Jones. Mr. Jones, or as he was also known, Benjamin Franklin Jones, Jr, was the son of steel pioneer, B.F. Jones, Sr. Senior had been one of the VIPs of the the young city of Pittsburgh back when it had been only a small village on the side of a muddy stream leading to the Allegheny River. Jones had also been one of the early pioneers of the burgeoning steel industry and ended up dying a very, very, very rich man. Meanwhile, Junior, who was the steel baron’s only child, ended up being a bit of a dandy and was likely a bit of a disappointment to his hard-working, conservative, prudent father. According to the books that Brian and I looked through, Junior was rumored to have hung out with a less reputable crowd than his father, and his hotel was known to be frequented by ‘unsavory’ types. 

 

“Okay, this is starting to make more sense,” I surmised after I finished reading through one particularly juicy recounting about how Junior was known to have run a speakeasy out of the same hotel during Prohibition. “If this BF Jones, Jr. guy was always as sketchy as he seems, it’s not that unbelievable that he’d have wanted to connect his hotel to other places via hidden tunnels. It would be like an escape route kind of thing, right?”

 

“Right . . .” Brian mumbled as he kept on reading a passage in a different reference. “Shit . . . Listen to this, Sunshine . . . ‘In his youth, Jones was the leader of a group of young men, mostly bachelors and unattached sons of the City’s upper crust, who were all well known rakes and reprobates. On more than one occasion, this band of ne'er-do-wells was called out in the pulpits of the City’s churches, and the Hotel Liberty was accused of being a den of pederasts and sodomites. Doubtless, if BF Jones, Sr. and the rest of these boys’ influential fathers hadn’t been as rich as they were, or hadn’t had the connections they had to local judges and police, their escapades would have made a lot bigger headlines.’” Brian finished reading the passage aloud. 

 

“Pederasts and sodomites? Oh yeah; I totally called it! They were all so, so, soooooo gay!” I crowed as I slammed the book I’d been reading closed. “And you didn’t believe me when I surmised that Peebles and young Billy were gay! Hah! Of course the tunnels and hidden rooms all make sense now, though - if Peebles and his buddy Jones were up to ‘illegal homosexual activities’,” I emphasized my words with scare quotes, “having tunnels connecting their buildings would help to hide their illicit rendezvous. Shit! Can you imagine having to go to all that trouble just so you could live out a secret life as a gay man? Kinda sucks, you know?”

 

“Looks like you were right after all, Sunshine,” Brian finally conceded as he started to reshelve all the books we’d taken out of the bookcase. “Considering what they were up to, and the prevailing opinions of the time about homosexuality, I guess your tunnels make sense.”

 

“Now I REALLY want to know where else that tunnel leads to, though,” I opined, getting up to stretch after sitting so long, and enjoying the way Brian’s eyes raked over my body, ending up focused on the strip of skin that was bared as my shirt rode up. “I mean, how far did this conspiracy of rebel gays go? Who else was in on it?”

 

“I don’t know. Although, we’re probably letting our imaginations get away from us, Sunshine,” Brian cautioned. “There might be some other, completely innocuous explanation, we’re overlooking. Not everyone is gay. For all we know, the fucking tunnel probably only led to a local brewery or something so the hotel could get their liquor supply more easily.”

 

“Maybe . . . But for now at least, I’m sticking with my Secret Sodomite Society theory. It’s more fun.” 

 

That little zinger earned me a chuckle from my man but, before I could follow up on my theories, the ravenous beast that lives in my belly spoke with a loud rumbling growl. Brian rolled his eyes and shook his head; it seemed he was already familiar enough with the bottomless pit that was my stomach to be unimpressed with how loud and insistent it could be. Hey, I can’t help it if I’m still a growing boy who needs fed at regular intervals, now can I? 

 

“Why does it feel like you only ever come over here to eat and sleep?” Brian asked. “I’m beginning to think you’re homeless as well as a burglar.”

 

“You caught me! That’s why I’m focused on you and your mostly empty building - I’m eyeing it as a potential flop house for me and all my homeless burglar friends,” I teased. 

 

“Cute . . .”

 

But before Eggy could insert his next amused complaint, I felt my phone buzzing in my jeans pocket and held up my hand to stop him. Pulling the device out, I noted the call was from Daphne. I tapped the icon to accept the call.

 

“Yo, Daphy. Tell me some good news!” I listened to her burbling about work and some friend there and . . . well, Daphne does tend to ramble a lot, so it’s forgivable that I rarely focus too carefully on her phone calls, right? I didn’t tune back in until the end when she concluded, “So Marcy agreed to come with me to meet Brian and if she thinks it’s indicated, she’ll prescribe him some anti-anxiety meds that will help with his OCD. We’re on our way now. You’re with Brian now, right? You said you were going over there after work today, so is now a good time?”

 

“Uh . . .” I looked over at my hermit and wondered how, exactly, I was going to prepare him for the invasion that was about to beset his tower of solitude. “We were just about to have dinner,” I answered lamely, trying to think of anything I could say that would put her off.

 

“Oh, that’s a great idea! I’m starving too. How about Marcy and I pick up a couple of pizzas on our way over and we can all chow down? Pepperoni okay with you boys? Oh, wait, Marcy says she wants a veggie. Oh well, we can get one of each. See you in about twenty then. Bye!” Daphne declared and then hung up before I could even respond.

 

I shoved my phone back into my pocket and then looked up at my nervous host. “So, Eggy, do you like pizza?” I asked with what I hoped was my most captivating smile.

  
  


Needless to say, Egbert was not at all pleased with the prospect of Daphne and her friend coming over for dinner. In fact, it would probably be an understatement to say he totally freaked out over the idea. And I get it, you know? I really do. His OCD combined with this social anxiety thing he has means he really is NOT into impromptu dinner parties. Hell, Brian makes your average introvert look like a party animal. But, since I’d already determined that I was going to help him beat this thing that was keeping him so isolated, I wasn’t going to let him hide anymore. This was going to be good for him - painful, but good in the long run - and I knew he could do it . . . with a little help.

 

So, after I explained to him what was about to go down, and waited while he imploded for about fifteen minutes or so, pacing and grumbling and nervously straightening all the already straightened possessions in his rooms, I forcibly pulled him down next to me on the couch and distracted him with my lips.

 

By the time that Daph texted, ‘Downstairs. Let us in!’, about ten minutes later, I had effectively kissed Brian into a calmer frame of mind. Yes, it’s true, my make out skills are THAT good. I gave Eggy one last peck on his luscious lips, adding a friendly tug to the long beard hairs sprouting below his chin, and then got up to run down the stairs so I could let the girls in. Unfortunately, by the time we’d all trudged back upstairs, pizza boxes in hand, he’d already worked himself up into a new lather and all my kissing had gone to waste. 

 

“Hey, Eggy,” I announced as I ushered my merry band through the doors of his sacrosanct apartments. “You remember Daphne, of course,” he looked up from where he was dusting the bookcase - again - and nodded at Daphne, “and this is her friend Marcy from the Hospital.”

 

“Hey, Brian,” Daphne greeted him with a smile, holding up the pizza boxes. “Hope you’re hungry!”

 

I could see the incipient panic in my poor recluse’s eyes as Daphne began to offload the greasy cardboard boxes onto his coffee table; I leapt into action and grabbed the pizza boxes away from Daph before they could contaminate Brian’s table, whisking them away to the kitchen. Brian joined me forthwith, getting out dishes and wiping them down before handing them to me, using a wet wipe to protect his fingers as he picked up the two pizza boxes, wiping down the counters underneath, and then replacing each atop of protective layer comprised of multiple plies of paper towelling so that none of the grease - or the other germy nastiness that conceivably came along with the boxes - would touch his pristine countertops. I let him do his thing and then took the initiative to plate up a couple slices for each of the women. Daph gave me a bit of side-eye, probably because she thought I was letting Brian get away with too much, but at least she didn’t say anything out loud. And, once the two females were seated around the coffee table with their food, I filled a plate for myself. I knew that there was no way in hell that Eggy was going to touch outside food, let alone something like greasy pizza which you were expected to eat with your fingers, so I didn’t even bother. To be honest, I thought he was doing pretty amazing even letting the girls and the pizza into his building. The rest would have to wait for another day. 

 

When we were all reseated, me and the two girls on the couch and Brian off on his own in an armchair, Marcy apparently determined it was time to get on with the real purpose behind the surprise pizza party. “So, Brian, it’s really nice to meet you. Daphne has told me a little bit about your situation here and asked if I could maybe help. I’m a Nurse Practitioner with a specialty in mental health. I’ve dealt with a fair number of OCD patients in the past, which is why Daphne figured I might be able to help you. What do you say?”

 

The resulting deer-in-the-headlights look that Eggy exhibited might have even been a little amusing, if it hadn’t been followed up with an angry, accusatory glare aimed my direction . . .

**********

  
  
Chapter Music Selection -  [ History by One Direction ](https://youtu.be/bhd3XA-DhqQ) . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4/23/19 - BF Jones and BF Jones, Jr. are real historical figures, and Junior did, at one time, own the building that still exists on the corner of Liberty Avenue and Tito Way, but all the rest of the stuff in this chapter about them is purely fictional. We have no way of knowing if Junior was gay or if his hotel was used by the raunchier side of society, and we offer apologies if this impunes anyone; it’s not meant to be that way and we only used these folks because they happened to have owned a conveniently located building that TAG liked when she was visiting Pittsburgh last fall. Interesting trial fact though - BF Jones, Sr. was also, for a brief period, the Chairman of the Republican National Committee - read into that what you will. ;) Also, took some extra time to re-outline this story over the past weekend, making sure we were more focused on where the story was going, and hopefully that will help us finish this WIP more efficiently. Let’s do this thing! TAG


	24. Not Your Toy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooo - this chapter is sooooo good! And it's dedicated to my co-author and friend, SunshineSally, in honor of her birthday. Hope it was a good one, my dear! Enjoy! TAG

Chapter 24 - Not Your Toy.

  
  


“I promise, I did NOT set this whole thing up, Brian,” I swore, holding up my hands in a gesture of surrender. 

 

Brian continued to glare at me and it felt almost as if his eyes were literally boring into my skull, it was that intense. 

 

“Okay . . . Daphne and I DID talk a little bit about how to help you with your OCD stuff, and she suggested you might benefit from going on some kind of meds, but I told her that was probably a no go since I don’t think you’re fond of the idea of a trip to see any doctors, and then she said maybe she could get a friend of hers to come see you, but at the time I thought that was all just wishful thinking and I seriously didn’t think she meant she was going to do it so soon, and if I had been in on this, I would have warned you a lot earlier and . . .” I realized I was nervously babbling out a complete confession that was exactly the opposite of what I’d just declared, so I made myself stop talking and just sat there feeling guilty. 

 

“Justin’s right - I didn’t tell him I was bringing Marcy here tonight,” Daphne tried to back me up. “I only just bumped into Marcy in the employee lounge as I was getting ready to leave the hospital and it all happened sorta spur of the moment.”

 

“But Justin and Daphne aren’t wrong that you could use some help, are they, Brian?” Marcy stepped in and pointedly took over the conversation in that doctory way all members of the medical profession seem to have. “I noticed that you haven’t joined us eating this pizza and I saw all the cleaning you did before. That’s probably just the tip of the iceberg, isn’t it?” 

 

Marcy paused and stared at Brian - all of us waiting in an uncomfortable silence and me holding my breath to see what would happen - until at last Brian responded with a sigh and a grudging half-shrug. That was probably all she would ever get. In fact, I was impressed that he’d given her that much, considering the way he’d been blindsided by all this. I bit at my bottom lip worriedly as I watched Brian’s withdrawn reaction, hoping against hope that he’d open up and accept the help that was being offered. 

 

“From what Daphne’s told me - third hand, I assume - you have all the classic symptoms of OCD. Stop me if I miss anything.” She began to tick off items on her fingers as she recited. “You don’t like dirt and have a fear of germs. You compensate for this by cleaning excessively. You avoid touching anything that’s already been touched by another person. Your obsessive cleaning might have even evolved into a series of rituals that have become increasingly complex and lengthy over time but which you feel you can’t do without. You have an extreme need for order which results in you getting upset when anything in your space is out of place. From what I can see, your fear of germs and contamination has morphed into a fear of people in general and, because of that, you’ve isolated yourself to the ridiculous extent that you live in a huge, empty building, all alone. I’m betting you haven’t been out of this place in years, am I right?”

 

Brian looked away, not meeting anyone’s eyes, his beautiful lips screwed up in an ugly pucker, but he didn’t deny anything Marcy had said, either. 

 

“I’m not accusing you of anything, Brian,” Marcy continued empathically. “None of those things are ‘wrong’ per se. It’s only when that type of behavior becomes obsessive and starts to control your life that it becomes a problem. But it’s a condition that can be managed with therapy and medication. You don’t have to let your OCD control you.”

 

“It doesn’t ‘control’ me. I’m fine. I don’t need to be fixed,” Brian responded in clipped, insistent tones. 

 

“Really? Are you saying you’ve always been agoraphobic and not being able to leave your home doesn’t bother you?” Marcy asked, looking like she knew the answer to her question already. “I’m assuming that you weren’t always trapped in here. You probably went to school like any other kid and had friends and a life outside these walls. Right?”

 

Brian nodded, not giving her anything more.

 

“So, when did it change? When did it start to become too much to handle?” Marcy asked, echoing my own curiosity and voicing one of the questions I hadn’t yet had the guts to ask.

 

Brian didn’t answer for so long that I was worried he wouldn’t say anything at all but, after a good two or three full minutes, he finally spoke up. “My grandfather - the person who raised me after my parents died - got sick the year I started college. Lung cancer. It was nasty. By the time the old bastard got around to going to see the doctor about why he was feeling so crappy, it was already stage four, so there wasn’t anything much they could do about it. Unfortunately, the stubborn old coot didn’t just up and die like he should have. He lingered. For nine fucking months. And, of course, the cheapskate refused to waste money on nurses, so I got the honor of cleaning up after him as he slowly pissed and shitted and coughed himself to death. Fun times . . .” Brian’s voice faded out at the end of this little declaration and I could see from the distant look in his eyes that he was mentally reliving that awful time. Then he finally spoke up again. “I ended up having to drop out of school to take care of him and somehow I just never went back. And, since I’d lost contact with most of my acquaintances during that time, I suppose it was . . . easy . . . to just disappear afterwards.” 

 

He shrugged again at the end of his story, trying to seem nonchalant, but I could tell he was hurting something bad. I wanted to get up and go to him so badly it was almost painful to hold myself back. But I knew that he wouldn’t welcome any more attention just then. It was obviously hard enough for him to even talk about this shit, and dealing with the added anxiety of my unwelcome touching wouldn’t help matters. Because I couldn’t hug him, though, I ended up wrapping my arms around my own waist and, in effect, hugging myself, hoping that the transitive power of caring would somehow project that embrace onto Brian. 

 

“That makes sense,” Marcy, who didn’t seem as fazed by the sadness of Brian’s story as I was, continued. “The trauma of seeing your grandfather - your primary caregiver from your youth - die, and having to deal with what sounds like a long and messy illness, was probably the initial trigger for your OCD. I’m also assuming you haven’t ever sought treatment for the condition?”

 

Brian gave a tiny negative shake of his head.

 

“So, you’ve basically been trapped here like this for what? Ten years or so? And you still say it doesn’t control you?” Marcy pressed.

 

Brian was completely silent, staring at the carpet and refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

 

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Brian. What you’re experiencing isn’t particularly rare. Doctors understand OCD pretty well these days, and we fairly routinely treat it with therapy and drugs, allowing most patients to successfully manage the condition. You could go back to living a more normal life. Is that something you’d like to pursue?” Marcy asked, then calmly waited for a reply.

Brian eventually lifted his gaze from his contemplation of the floral pattern on his oriental carpet and our eyes met. I didn’t say anything, but I’m sure my face gave away pretty much everything I was thinking - it always has. I didn’t want him to feel like I was pressuring him to do this. I didn’t want him to think I was ashamed of him or that I judged him for his condition. I knew it wasn’t something he could control. I had felt attracted to Brian from the moment I got that first, brief, glance of him standing at his window, and the fact of his OCD had never diluted that attraction. I would continue to want to be with him, OCD or not, so it didn’t really affect that part of what we were building. But I couldn’t help wanting more - not more FROM him, but more FOR him. I wanted him to be able to leave this building occasionally, to see the world and enjoy being outside. I wanted him to be able to eat a piece of fucking pizza without it being some huge struggle. And, hell, I wanted him to be able to touch me; I wanted that so much I sometimes felt like I would burst. So, if there was some way to effectuate that process more quickly, I suppose I was all for trying whatever we could.

 

I’m not sure what, exactly, was communicated between us for the minute or two we stared into each others eyes, but somehow it felt profound. Like we’d somehow come to a meeting of the minds without saying a word. It felt like he was silently questioning me and reading the answers directly from my brain. But whatever the mechanism, it seemed to work, and in the end, he turned towards Marcy, sat up a little straighter in his chair, squared his shoulders as if he was about to take on some gargantuan task, and nodded.

 

“What would you suggest?” Brian asked quietly but with determination.

 

And so, by the time the girls left about an hour later, Marcy had promised to phone in a prescription for Anafranil to the pharmacy Brian said would deliver. It would take about two weeks to ramp the medication up to a level where my hermit might start to feel some effects, but that didn’t seem very long considering the years he’d been suffering already. The plan was to wait and see how much the meds would help, and then potentially pair that up with in-person therapy once Brian was resigned to the idea of leaving his tower. Or at least that was Marcy‘s plan; Brian, meanwhile, hadn’t said much, let alone made any promises. 

 

My personal plan had been to stick around after the ladies left and try to placate my disgruntled boyfriend. I knew that, even if Brian had eventually capitulated to the idea of going on anti-anxiety meds, he was still less than happy with the way it had all come about. So, after I let the girls out and locked the lobby door, I ran back up the stairs to Brian‘s room, only to find a sullen and withdrawn grouch in his place.

 

Taking a stand right in front of the armchair were he was still sitting - a spot where he wouldn’t be able to simply ignore me - I planted my fists on my hips and tried to assume what I thought was a determined pose. “Okay, I realize that I probably shouldn’t have been discussing you with Daphne behind your back. I should, at the very least, have told you about it before Daphne and Marcy just showed up here like that. I realize you’re pissed off at me, and rightly so . . .”

 

“Ya think?”

 

“Ugh! Fine. Just tell me what it’s gonna take to get you to forgive me,” I implored. “I’m happy to apologize again. I’ll even apologize in writing, if that’s what you need. Hell, I’m not above begging even . . .” There was still no real response from the stalwart stylite sitting in front of me. “You really are stubborn.” I huffed with exasperation, shook my head, and held up my right hand as if I were pledging allegiance to something. “Alright - final offer - I swear to be your sex slave for life if you’ll just forgive me already. Please, Eggy? Please.” Then I hit him with my best innocent puppy dog look combined with my irresistible eyelash batting technique, and waited.

 

He must have been more angry than I’d thought, because it took a full thirty seconds before he began to smile a tiny bit - just at the corners of his mouth, mind you - but it was a smile nonetheless and I knew we’d be okay.

 

“Why would I want a total brat for a sex slave. You’d be a nightmare to discipline.”

 

“True . . . I guess you’ll have to be my sex slave instead then.” 

 

“Don’t push your luck, kid,” he pretended to give me a domineering look but I could tell his heart wasn’t behind it. 

 

“Ooooo - can we count this as our first official argument? Cuz you know what comes after the argument, right? We get to kiss and make up!” I proposed. 

 

Egbert scoffed but it wasn’t any more believable than his stern look was before. “. . . Fucking pushy burglars . . .”

 

And just like that my sins were forgotten and we were better than ever. 

  
  


Because of my stupid sprained ankle I’d missed out on a lot of work opportunities over Christmas break, so I was more than happy when one of the other waiters at the Liberty Diner came down with the flu the day after our medical intervention with Egbert. I happily agreed to go in and work a nice long shift when Debbie called. However, it sorta ended up being an epidemic and the rest of the staff dropped one by one over the course of the following forty-eight hours. By Saturday, I was trying to run the whole Diner single-handedly, with only the cook to back me up. I did a double-and-a-half shift that day and then went home and collapsed in my bed for twelve full hours. The money was great; the exhaustion, not so much. Needless to say, I didn’t have time to get back to Eggy’s until Sunday afternoon, when Deb announced she was finally functional enough to head back to work. 

 

“Hey, Gorgeous! Miss me?” I asked when Brian let me in through the lobby doors. 

 

“Brat.”

 

“You know . . . you say ‘Brat’, but I always hear ‘Beautiful’,” I teased. 

 

“Delusional Brat,” he amended, but this time with a smile. 

 

“See? Now, kiss me, you sweet talker you!” I demanded, undeterred by all his grumbling. 

 

Eggy was getting so good at this kissing thing that he barely hesitated at all before leaning down, beard and all, to leave a nice, warm kiss on my lips. Of course, I wasn’t satisfied with that, and reached up, a hand buried in scratchy beard hair on each side of his face, and pulled him closer. He didn’t struggle. I thoroughly kissed him, even adding a little tongue to make things interesting, and he since he didn’t object, I counted it as a win. When I finally let him go, we were both a bit out of breath but happy.

 

“It’s too early in the day for you to be here begging for the use of one of my beds, and you just missed lunch,” my hermit teased as soon as the kissing had stopped. “So, to what do I owe the honor of this visit, Mr. Brat?”

 

“I can’t just pop in for a kiss or two?”

 

“You could . . . but with you I always suspect ulterior motives.”

 

“You’re right,” I sighed. “I confess; I’m only interested in you for your building.” 

 

“I thought so.”

 

“It’s true. I’m ridiculously turned on by secret rooms and tunnels.” He gave me a look intimating that I was crazy. “Hey, no kink-shaming! I can’t help it if mold and dust get me hard.”

 

“You’re fucking insane. You know that, right?”

 

“That’s why you love me, though, because you can’t figure me out. Plus, I’m the best kisser you know. Face it, you can’t live without me,” I declared, earning myself a small huff of amusement. “But seriously, I really did come for your basement today. And I brought this . . .” I held up a small black plastic case, unzipping it to reveal a set of several metal-tipped implements. “Did you know you can buy a lock pick kit for less than $20 at Home Depot?”

  
  


“What the fuck? What do you plan to do with that?” Brian asked, looking worried.

 

“You laugh about me being a burglar, but did I ever tell you about that time back in High School when I did my science project on how locks work and how to pick them?” I grinned at his shocked disbelief. “It’s kinda fascinating, actually. The mechanisms in most locks aren’t that complicated. It’s just a question of getting all the metal pins to line up the right way. And I’m betting an ancient lock like the one on that door in that tunnel will be a piece of cake.”

 

“You can’t fucking be serious.” Brian started to protest but, apparently, when he saw my look of determination he knew I really was. “Fuck! Well, don’t expect me to bail you out when you’re arrested.”

 

“I won’t be arrested. I already asked the Crazy Mocha people and nobody there knows squat about any tunnels in their basement, so how are they gonna know if I break in through the tunnel door? I’m betting it leads to another hidden room over there. Besides, I’m not gonna steal anything or cause any damage. I just want a peek. Nobody in the building will even know I’m there. It’ll be fine.”

 

“Famous fucking last words,” Brian complained, crossing his arms and shaking his head at me. 

 

“Come on, Eggy. You know you’re just as curious as I am at this point,” I cajoled. “And the sooner we know where these doorways and tunnels lead, the sooner I’ll have the mystery solved and we can finally forget about all this stuff that wigs you out, right?”

 

He actually growled at me, causing me to laugh out loud. I was really pushing his comfort zone with this, but I could tell he wasn’t going to try and stop me. Still, I thought it prudent to offer another small kiss to placate my beast. And it seemed to work too, because as our lips parted, he handed over the keys to the pizza place so I could get into the basement. I don’t like to brag or anything, but do I know my Eggy or what? 

 

I made my way down to the hidden basement room, with Eggy nervously following, and let myself in through the hidden door. Brian hovered while trying not to touch anything. I pushed the chest away from the tunnel door and then gave a cheery wave to my man before I set off down the tunnel once again, my phone held high with the flashlight function activated so I could see where I was going. By that point I was getting pretty good at navigating the piles of rubble so it didn’t take me long to get to the westward bend, and then down that leg, all the way to the door under Crazy Mocha. 

 

Things got a little complicated then because I had to set my phone down in order to open the lockpick kit. I used a loose brick to prop the phone up in a way that gave me some light, and then got to work on that lock. To start with, I inserted the long metal tension tool at the bottom of the lock, using that to apply a small amount of torsion to the internal cylinder. Then I tried a couple of different picks until I found one that seemed to fit best in the mechanism. This lock was old and probably not mass produced, so I wasn’t sure how many pins it had. I had to play it by ear - literally - listening carefully as I fiddled with my pick, trying to detect the small internal clicking as I ran my pick past each individual pin. By trial and error, I determined there were only four pins. It took a little playing around after that, experimenting with two different raked picks, before I figured out the right combination. Eventually, though, I felt the tension tool giving way and I knew I’d done it. I torqued the tension tool all the way in a clockwise direction and smiled when I heard the satisfying, loud, clank as the lock gave. The handle turned easily after that and, before you knew it, I had open access to the room behind the door.

 

“Success! Hang tight a minute, Egbert. I’m going in!” I yelled back down the tunnel so my waiting worrywort would know what was going on. 

 

“Be careful!” he shouted back and I could hear the edge of concern in his voice.

 

But by then I was already inside the room. The meager light from my phone didn’t do much to illuminate the area at first; it seemed like a much bigger space than the cozy little room in Eggy’s basement. All I could see in the distance was open space and vague dark shapes indicating some kind of furniture. I flashed my phone light around the immediate vicinity of the doorway though, and was surprised to find an old-fashioned, round, metal light switch affixed to the wall by my right shoulder. I reached over and flicked the switch, holding my breath until a huge glass light fixture in the middle of the ceiling sparked to life, revealing by it’s glow a large room arranged much like a modern day tavern.

 

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” I muttered to myself.

 

I switched off the flashlight app on my phone and used it instead to snap a couple of quick pictures from various angles. The room was musty and obviously hadn’t been used in decades, judging by the dust on everything, but under that dust it seemed to be quite richly decorated. There was a dark cherry wood wainscoting that stretched around the entire circumference of the room, matching the full-height cabinetry that took up the entire far wall as well as the wooden bar and shelving that lined the right-hand side of the room. Unfortunately the shelves were completely empty and I suspected the bar itself would have been long since cleared of anything useful as well. I didn’t see a second door leading out into the building, but suspected there might be some hidden egress in the one stretch of fairly bare wall between the end of the bar and the wall of cabinets. The upper walls and ceiling appeared to be composed of old plaster which was stained and wet in areas but still showed the burgundy-red paint that had originally been used. A few chairs, a battered old sofa, and a couple of bar stools were still in evidence, but none of them looked all that sturdy. In the corner there was a pile of old crates stacked against the wall next to what looked like empty liquor bottles. The floor was decorated with black and white checkered tiles. All in all, it must have been quite the elegant space back in the day, and I could easily see the young dandies of the era enjoying a pint or two here. 

 

I made my way to the far end of the room first because I was curious about the stuff I could see inside the glass-fronted doors of the cabinets there. I thought it strange - especially if this room was basically forgotten by those who used the building above - that whoever had previously used this room would have left anything down here, but what did I know? Whatever it was, though, I figured it merited at least a quick look.

 

The first cabinet I came across looked like it was stocked with individual pewter steins - each one with a name etched into the front. That was kinda cool, I supposed; each member of this club having his own cup to use when he was in attendance was pretty nifty. There were quite a number of these cups, too, which seemed to indicate that, whomever had been frequenting this hidden tavern, there had to have been a lot of them.

 

The second cupboard held additional bar accessories. There were two really large bulbed glasses, about a meter tall, each with its own wooden stand, an assortment of stemmed glasses that appeared to be made of cut crystal, some metal shaker thingies, an entire wooden tray full of different sized cork screws, and a lot more I didn’t really recognize. These guys had obviously been serious about their drinking. 

 

In the next cupboard over, the shelves were stocked with books. At first, I only barely glanced through the glass at those; I wasn’t really all that interested in dusty old books. But then I noted a title I recognized . . . ‘Le Kama Soutra’. I immediately pulled open the door to the cupboard and retrieved the battered-looking book. My High School French was a little rusty, so I wasn’t likely to read the text, but the pictures were self-explanatory. Only, this particular version of the famous ancient Indian sex manual seemed different than most. Instead of pictures of men and women together, all the pictures in this volume were of men! 

  
  


“I KNEW IT!” I whooped happily, proud to have my theories of a secret homosexual sex ring proven right.

 

Apparently I’d yelled loudly enough that my voice had carried all the way down the tunnel because I heard a faint echo calling my name. “Justin? You okay?”

 

“I’m fine. Give me a few more minutes, Eggy!” I yelled and then went back to scanning the titles of the books.

 

Yep, every single one of the books there were about sex. Quite a few of the books were in foreign languages, which was intriguing but useless. And most were about just plain, old, vanilla heterosexual stuff, of course - I didn’t think the LGBTQ publishers of the Victorian Era were very prolific - but enough of the titles were either ambiguous or specifically about men that I could just tell it was all meant for a homosexual clientele. 

 

On the bottom shelf of the cabinet there was also a section of small leatherbound books that didn’t have titles imprinted on them. I pulled one of these out and opened it, only to discover it appeared to be a personal journal. I scanned it but couldn’t really tell much, mostly because the scrawling handwriting inside was almost indecipherable. The next one was the same. However, the third one I pulled out seemed much more legible. I thought about taking it with me to read later at my leisure, thinking it might be informational. 

 

Before I pocketed the book I intended to abscond with, though, I flipped back to the inside front cover and gasped at the name I saw written in dark ink at the very top: William J. Carnegie, Anno Domini: 1885.

 

“Woohoo! Fucking pay dirt!” I congratulated myself on my fortuitous find and immediately put the notebook into the back pocket of my jeans. 

 

“Justin! Haven’t you been gone long enough?” Brian’s anxious voice interrupted my moment of triumph. 

 

“Coming!” I hollered back at him. 

 

Before I took off, however, I decided to sneak a brief look inside the lower level cupboards - the ones which had solid wooden doors blocking my view - just to satisfy my curiosity. The first one was filled with what appeared to be janitorial supplies: brushes, a small hand broom and dust pan, some rusty metal containers filled with I-don’t-know-what, and a bunch of other boring shit. I immediately moved on to the next cupboard, which was stuffed full of forgotten towels, napkins and moldering old linens. This part of my search was beginning to look like a bust. But, because I was nothing if not thorough, I moved on to the last set of cupboard doors and was surprised to discover that this cabinet was locked. Very odd, wouldn’t you say? 

 

I knew Eggy was probably freaking out by that point, but how was I supposed to pass up yet another mystery? Come on. Tell me you wouldn’t have been dying to see what was so important it was kept locked in a locked and hidden room at the end of a hidden tunnel in what seemed to be a closed off basement room? Yeah, I didn’t think you could pass something like that up either! Of course I had to pull out my lockpick set and go to work on that cupboard forthwith!

 

Luckily, it turned out that particular lock was more for show than anything else, and I was able to get it opened in under thirty seconds. I pulled open the doors and discovered a rack of drawers inside. Okay, not what I was expecting. I started with the top drawer - which had a fairly shallow drawer box adorned with beautifully milled metal pulls - tugging at it expectantly. It stuck a little, the wood probably swollen after decades of disuse in that damp, old basement, but with a little extra elbow grease I finally managed to pull it towards me. Then I marvelled at the treasures I found inside.

 

The drawer was filled with an assortment of clearly recognizable, yet decidedly ancient, sex toys! Eureka! THIS is what I’m talking about, Boys!

  
  


Now, I wasn’t exactly a history buff, nor was I a specialist in the bygone days of sex toys, so I was actually pretty surprised by this find. I mean, all my toys are plastic or latex, and I’d never before even heard of a dildo made out of what appeared to be ivory, but there it was, nestled in a little trough of it’s own lined with heavy royal blue velvet, and looking beautiful in it’s artistry. Surrounding this beauty, were other little trays of various sizes, all filled with an array of wonders. There were several sizes of butt plugs, ranging from ‘cute’ to ‘ouch’, some metal rings not all that different from the cock ring I had in my own drawer back home, some beads that looked to be composed of polished rock, something that looked like a cage for a man’s penis, and so many other things that I didn’t quite understand the use of that I couldn’t count them. There was even a section of the drawer containing a pile of what appeared to be old sheepskin condoms, now all yellowed and brittle with age, but perfectly recognizable. 

 

Like, wow, right? 

 

I giddily inspected the next two drawers and discovered more of the same. It was a virtual treasure trove of sex toys. I felt like a kid on Christmas morning; albeit a gay kid with a really advanced interest in anal sex, but whatever. This was probably the coolest thing I could ever imagine finding! All you other treasure seekers can have your pirate chests full of gold doubloons - give me a cupboard full of dildos any day! 

 

I would have loved to stay and investigate further but I heard Brian calling again, more insistent than ever, and I knew I had to get back. I quickly snapped pictures of each of the drawers so I could share with my hermit. When I came to the bottom drawer though - the deepest of all the drawers, taking up more than a third of the height of the cabinet all by itself - I was yet again surprised and confused. This drawer contained some kind of bizarre and possibly painful gadget that I couldn’t even begin to understand. All I knew was that it had something that looked like a long rubber phallus attached, via a piston mechanism, to an intricate contraption comprised of wheels and tubes. I could guess what it’s purpose was but . . . can you say ow! These Victorian Era fags must have been seriously masochistic or something. I took a picture of the device and then gladly closed that particular drawer, happy to have the torture implement it contained out of sight. 

  
  


Boy did I have a lot to share with my stylite after this adventure. 

 

I knew that this discovery more than clinched my Secret Sodomite Society theory. And man were those 1880s guys kinky too. No wonder the local churches were ragging on them. Of course, that only made me love Peebles, his Billy and all the rest of them even more. 

  
********

  
Chapter Music Selection -  [ (Not Your) Toy by Netta ](https://youtu.be/CziHrYYSyPc) . 

********

Also, here's some fun links for you:  [How To Pick A Lock](https://youtu.be/Mz5IOFK38nU) and  [ History of Dildos ](https://allthatsinteresting.com/history-of-the-dildo) . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4/26/19 - Just in case you, like Justin, are curious about how to open locked doors, check out the link to the fun video teaching you how to pick a lock at the end of the chapter. And, just to assure you that we take our duties as authors seriously, we did research dildos to make sure it would be realistic for Justin to find one in the hidden barroom, and it turns out people have been putting things in their bodily orifices for over 30,000 years, so . . . there's an article about the History of Dildos! Great reading! *wink* Sometimes being a writer is not only fun but also educational! LOL. Hope you like it! TAG


	25. Shower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our Brian is coming out of his shell... So much intimate fun here! Enjoy! TAG

  
  


Chapter 25 - Shower.

  
  


“Ta da!” I burbled happily, holding up the notebook I’d liberated from the basement of the Hotel Liberty as soon as I reached Brian.

 

“That’s it? You’ve been gone, like, an hour, and all you found was one moldy old pocket-sized notebook? Seriously?” Brian grumbled.

 

“I wasn’t gone an hour, you big worrywort,” I corrected him with a chuckle. “It was more like ten minutes, tops. I barely had enough time to look around before you were ordering me to come back.”

 

“Felt like an hour to me,” Eggy mumbled under his breath.

 

“Well, however long it was, I managed to use my time well,” I answered politically so as not to cause a fight. “You won’t believe what I found over there. It’s so cool. I only brought back this one book because most of the other stuff was too bulky to carry - plus I really didn’t go over there to steal stuff . . .”

 

Brian snorted, which I chose to ignore as I continued on with my story. 

 

“. . . but I don’t think anyone will miss this one little book. Besides, I wasn’t going to pass up the chance to read what’s in here!”

 

I was waving the small, dusty, leather-bound notebook in Brian’s face as I spoke. This turned out to be too much for my OCD boyfriend, who promptly stepped backwards, far enough away that I couldn’t touch him with the potentially contaminated object. Apparently, compulsions top curiosity in this instance.

 

“What’s so special about it?” he asked once he’d retreated to a safe distance.

 

“This little book happens to be the journal of our dear, sweet, young Billy Carnegie . . .”

 

“No shit?” Brian finally seemed impressed by my find. 

 

“And that’s not all I found. Wait till you see the pictures I took! Come on, let’s head upstairs and I’ll show you everything.”

 

“Okay. But . . .”

 

“But what?” I asked, wondering why he was looking at me with his nose all scrunched up like that.

 

“Maybe . . . You might like to take a shower first?” Eggy suggested. “You look like one of those chimney sweeps from Mary Poppins.”

 

I looked down at myself and noticed for the first time just how much dirt and dust was coating my clothing after my foray into the bowels of the Hotel Liberty. No wonder Egbert was squicked just looking at me. I must have carted at least half the filth from that basement room back out with me. And looking at all the dirt on my clothing made me realize that was likely the reason my breathing had been getting a little ragged. Damn asthma. Brian was probably right that a nice long shower should be next on the agenda. 

 

We quickly secured the tunnel door with its chest of drawers blockade and made our way out of the secret room and through the basement. I found my trusty messenger bag where I’d left it on the floor by the basement door and fished through it till I found my inhaler, taking a nice long hit of Albuterol. Then, as soon as my airways felt less constricted, we climbed the stairs back to Eggy’s rooms and he pointed me towards the bathroom forthwith. I was happy to go, but not alone.

 

“You gonna join me, Big Guy?” I asked coyly, tilting my head towards the bathroom door with what I hoped was an inviting smile on my lips. 

 

“I think you’re capable of taking a shower all by yourself without falling over this time,” he waffled. 

 

“Of course I CAN shower by myself, but where’s the fun in that?” I replied saucily. “Besides, I might have some dirty spots I can’t reach by myself and you wouldn’t want that, now would you?” He was smiling now and looking at me with more than just a little interest. “Come on. I’ll let you wash my back and get me super-squeaky clean all over . . .”

 

“There you go with those ulterior motives again,” he protested.

 

He didn’t resist, though, when I reached out, snagged the hem of the shirt he was wearing, and doggedly towed him after me into the bathroom. I must really be good at this hermit therapy thing, you know, because a month before he wouldn’t have let me touch him even that much. Thankfully, he was much more compliant these days. So, when I had him where I wanted him - complacently standing in the middle of the bathroom - I took it one step further and reached up to begin unbuttoning his shirt. And he didn’t even flinch. 

 

I took my time going button to button and then sliding the fabric off Brian’s shoulders, enjoying for a moment the fact that I was being granted so much unfettered access to touch him. Once I had him bare from the waist up, I allowed my fingers to trail over his smooth chest. I marvelled at the golden tan of his skin, despite the fact that he rarely, if ever, got out in the sun, figuring it must be his natural skin tone. My paler hand resting against his pec showed off the difference amazingly, and for an instant I almost forgot what I was supposed to be doing other than just running my hands over his beautiful skin. 

 

“You next,” Brian directed, fingering the hem of my shirt, still seemingly too nervous about my dirty clothing to fully enjoy my fondling. 

 

“I’m getting there,” I advised with a chuckle as I pulled the filthy thing off over my head, raising a small cloud of dust in the process. 

 

Brian stepped away from me and pointed nervously to the laundry hamper. While I was there I slid off my pants as well, tossing it all in together and leaving me wearing nothing but my birthday suit. As I turned around, I caught my Eggy getting a nice eyeful of my tushie, which made me blush for some reason. It’s not like I cared about being naked around him, but there was something about the fact that he was obviously appreciative of my assets that left me flushed and strangely disconcerted. Brian was such a contradiction in every way - how he managed to be so sensual and at the same time untouchable, was a mystery . . . One that I was almost as eager to solve as the mystery of his building. 

 

As soon as I was freed of the worst of my dirtiness, he let me approach again, and I was allowed to resume my touching of his glorious skin. This time I remained conscious of my goal, though, and guided my trailing fingers lower and lower till I came into contact with the waistband of the jeans he was wearing. It took no time at all to undo the top button and then unzip the fly all the way. Meanwhile, my man stood there and let me undress him like a Ken doll, not helping but not stopping me and, shit, if that didn’t make it even hotter. I felt like he was giving himself up to me and allowing me all the control which, for him, was really something. He didn’t even bat an eye when I slid my hands inside the back of the now loose jeans and cupped a firm butt cheek in each palm as I pushed the pants below his hips. 

 

“Mmmm,” his barely vocal purr sounded loud in the small enclosed space of the bathroom as I spent a minute or two kneading at the globes of flesh. 

 

“You know, for a big guy, you have a remarkably compact ass,” I commented, getting a scowl from the object of my observation. “I mean that in a good way!” I rushed to correct his assumption. “It’s just that you fit so perfectly in my hands. It’s like your ass was made for me to fondle.”

 

“Did I mention how weird you are?” was his only response. 

 

“Maybe once or twice,” I teased. 

 

Meanwhile, I noted that he hadn’t yet pulled away from me or taken any other action to halt my explorations of his nether regions, something that I was rather impressed by, to be honest. I shuffled a few inches closer, allowing my hardening dick to brush against his, all the time prepared for him to reach the limits of his comfort zone and tell me to stop. But he didn’t. So I followed up by leaning forward and depositing a line of kisses up the column of his neck, beginning on his bare collarbone and proceeding upward at an angle.

 

When I eventually reached his ear, I gave the lobe a friendly little nibble and whispered, “at this rate I’m never gonna get that shower.”

 

My teasing seemed to break the tension of the moment and we both laughed. Brian moved away first, pulling open the door to the shower enclosure and reaching in to start the water running. I waited as patiently as I could, considering the state of lust I was in after that energizing make out session. When all was ready, he stepped in, under the water, and I followed. He handed me the bar of soap and just when I was about to rub it all over my body, I quickly changed my mind. I rubbed the soap between my hands, making sure I got a decent amount of foam to work with. I could feel Brian watching as I rubbed over my slippery chest, down my abs and over my package, making sure I was nice and lathered. Then I handed the soap over to him and smiled as he did the same. His hands mirroring mine perfectly. 

 

Damn, how I wanted it to be MY hands that were caressing that beautiful body! 

 

But we hadn’t done that yet and I didn’t know how far my Eggy was willing to let me go. It was killing me, though, not to touch him right then. He was so statuesque, standing there like a fucking adonis, with water dripping off all his parts and the bubbles from the soap dripping down his pecs, flowing into the well of his navel, and then overflowing to trickle down through his pubes like some licentious Galton Board, until all the drips coalesced together into one stream that drizzled off the tip of his hardening cock. When his hand drifted down to wash his ball sac I think I moaned aloud. 

 

“You’re drooling,” Brian commented, rightly, with a smirk at my piteousness. 

 

“Can you blame me?” I gestured to the image he was creating and sighed. “To have all THAT right in front of me and not be able to do anything about it? It’s just fucking cruel, is what it is, Egbert.”

 

“Who said you couldn’t do anything about it?” he asked with a flirtatious little smile that immediately hit some chord deep inside me. 

 

“Halle-fucking-lujah!” I mumbled and immediately took him up on his invitation, stepping forward, capturing the hand that was currently playing with his soapy balls and taking over the washing duties with a happy moan. 

 

I started with a bit of general fondling, just letting my hand cup underneath the swelling of his small but firm balls and then gliding upwards, circling around the fullness of his penis as it hardened at my touch, ending with a happy little tug. Brian mmmm’d at me, his eyes closed and a half-smile on his lips. Since he was obviously enjoying himself, and not freaking out over all the touching, I felt emboldened. I took a better hold on the object of my focus, enjoying the heft of his dick lying against my palm, filling and plumping with each beat of his heart. I let the soap act as a lubricant as I slowly and deliberately slid my fingers up and down the silky smooth shaft, pulling him towards me a little bit with each motion, until there was barely an inch between us. Then, with my free hand, I reached out, grabbed his wrist, and guided his hand to my own straining cock. He hesitated only an instant before he grabbed hold, his grip was firmer than I had expected, which pleases me immensely. 

 

And then we just went for it like fiends!

 

So, yeah, mutual hand jobs may sound a bit juvenile to some of you. I get it that you probably think I’m being a little overboard in my enthusiasm here. But I’m not sure if you understand just how monumental this development was for my OCD Hermit Boy. Cuz, guys, there’s nothing quite so messy as dueling hand jobs - assuming you do it right - with cum flying everywhere and so much touching of genitals and just the general unsanitariness of it all . . . The fact we were in the shower obviously helped a lot, because all the water and soap probably countered Brian’s anxiety to a large extent. But still, can I just say, HOT, FUCKING, DAMN!

 

Needless to say, neither one of us lasted all that long. A few dozen strokes and we were both cumming buckets. I loved the little jerk and twitch of his cock in my hand as he shot, followed by the groan of repletion as his body sagged against my own. I followed suit half a second later, my head cushioned against his strong pec and one arm wrapped tightly around his waist, holding us together and upright. Then we just clung to each other for fuck knew how many minutes, inhaling the sandalwood aroma of his soap while the warm water showered down over our bodies, rinsing away all evidence of our lust and refreshing us at the same time. 

 

As if that wasn’t miraculous enough, however, our shower ended with yet another milestone. When we’d both finally caught our breath, Brian leaned over, used one long index finger positioned under my chin to tilt my face upward, and initiated a kiss for the very first time! I was so surprised I almost forgot to kiss back at first.  

 

“I think we’re both clean enough by this point,” Brian announced when he finally pulled away, reaching out to shut off the water. 

 

I was still too caught up in that amazing kiss to say anything and simply tripped along after him in a happy daze. 

 

All fresh and clean from our shower, I followed Brian into his room where he handed over a clean pair of sweats for me to put on since my clothing was now quarantined in his laundry hamper. I guess I was still a little tired from my marathon Diner shifts the past few days because that, plus the happy lassitude after our shower-capades had me feeling sleepy. No wonder the temptation of Brian’s nice, big, clean bed was too much for me to resist; I immediately climbed up on it and made myself comfortable. By the time Eggy had finished dressing and turned around, I was already propped against the headboard with one of his pillows behind my back and the quilt pulled up over me. 

 

“Make yourself comfortable, why don’t you?” he snarked.

 

“Don’t mind if I do,” I replied with my bratty-best smile. “But I’d be much more comfortable if you joined me.” I patted the spot next to me on the mattress. “Oh, and bring Billy’s journal with you - we can read it together while we snuggle.”

 

His nose scrunched up tightly as he looked at me in disgust. “I don’t . . . snuggle,” he insisted but at the same time he followed instructions by going out to the other room and grabbing the journal as I asked. When he returned he had the object with him, keeping the book well away from his body and using a wet wipe to protect his fingers from the dusty cover. “Here . . . Just don’t get dirt all over my fucking bed,” he ordered before taking up his spot next to me.

 

To placate him, I used the wet wipe to remove any lingering dust, although it was already pretty clean after having most of the contamination wiped off by the fabric of my pants pocket on the trip back here through the tunnel. That small gesture seemed to appease the clean freak lying in bed with me, though, since he nodded approvingly when I looked in his direction. Accepting that as a general go ahead, I opened the front cover of the book and started reading the first entry aloud.  

 

“January 1, 1885: ‘Be at War with your Vices, at Peace with your Neighbours, and let every New-Year find you a better Man, or so says the esteemed Mr. Benjamin Franklin, and I have determined to make that my motto for this coming year in the hopes of ameliorating my condition. Father, I am sure, believes me incapable of such change, but I am resolved to prove him wrong. It needs only that I apply myself to my schooling, avoid temptation, and elect to choose wiser company, according to the paterfamilias. We shall see, I suppose. We shall see . . .’” 

 

“Best laid plans of mice and men . . .” Brian opined in response. 

 

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure his father’s idea of ‘wiser company’ probably didn’t involve the type of men who frequented the Hotel Liberty,” I agreed, picking up my phone off the side table where I’d left it and pulling up the photos I’d taken of the secret barroom in the former Hotel’s basement. “At least not the men who were using these little beauties . . .” 

 

Brian turned the screen towards himself so he could better see the pictures I’d take of the drawers full of sex toys and whistled. “Wow! My, my, my . . . Those Victorian gay boys certainly liked their toys, it seems.” I swiped through the pictures for him, allowing him to see the full panoply of all the goodies I’d discovered. 

 

“You’re not just kidding,” I replied, getting to the picture of the device in the last drawer and enjoying the grimace the contraption caused on my Eggy’s handsome face. “Anyone who was willing to take on THAT beast, was hardcore.”

 

“I didn’t even know S&M was a thing back then,” Brian voiced the same thought I’d had. “What’s the rest of the room look like? Whips and chains hanging from the walls, no doubt?”

 

“Actually, no.” I swiped through the pics again till I came to the shots I’d taken of the room itself. “It looked very elegant and presentable at first glance. Just like any other tavern of the time, I suppose. Except for the fact that this particular bar was hidden away in the basement, and there was no obvious door leading out to the Hotel proper, a casual observer wouldn’t have any clue what went on there. Not until they looked in the cupboards, of course.”

 

“No door?”

 

“Nope. Not that I could see. Although I suspect there was a secret entrance somewhere here, along this wall.” I pointed out the spot on the picture I had taken showing the long wooden bar along the right-hand side of the room and then the empty space between that and the cupboards against the end wall. “See. They could have easily hidden a doorway like the one down in your basement over there.”

 

“But why hide the room in the first place?” Brian asked as he scrutinized the picture more thoroughly. “I mean, it was a Hotel, right? Which means that it would be perfectly normal to have a tavern on the premises. Why put the bar in the basement, in the first place, and then hide it with a secret door on top of everything?”

 

“Well, duh! Because it was GAY bar, of course,” I answered. Brian seemed skeptical, even though he’d seen the pictures of the dildos in the drawers. “Don’t you see, Eggy? The Hotel was already getting called out by all the church folks, so they had to hide it! They were basically ALL in the closet back then.”

 

“We don’t know that they were ALL gay, Justin.”

 

“Well, enough of them were that they had a pretty impressive collection of things to shove up their asses.” Brian laughed at my phrasing and shrugged in concession. “Maybe Jones himself wasn’t gay, but even if he was just willing to accommodate the clientele that swung that way because he was a good little capitalist, there’s no reason to hide the whole room unless it really was specifically meant for his homosexual customers, right?” Brian still didn’t look like he was totally in agreement with me, so of course I sprang immediately into PSA mode. “Did you know that same sex sexual activity was technically illegal in Pennsylvania as late as 1980, when the sodomy laws were officially changed? Before that, it was illegal to have anal intercourse or any sort, even if it was between a married man and his wife. It was a felony, even. Hell, they were actually convicting people on those grounds as late as the seventies - there was this one serial killer who . . .”

 

“Are you minoring in Sodomy Studies or something, Sunshine? How do you know all this shit?” Egbert teased me, interrupting right when I was getting on a roll.

 

“Daphne and I did a research project on the topic for Sociology back in Freshman year. It was really interesting, actually.” He huffed a laugh or two at my nerdiness, causing me to blush, but still not shutting me up, because I don’t shut up - or embarrass - that easily. “Anyway, the point is that, even if Jones himself wasn’t gay, and was simply catering to his more deviant clients’ interests, it was still illegal and he’d have wanted to hide the fact of what he was doing. And since there’s no other explanation for wanting to hide the bar, ergo, it had to be what we today would call a ‘gay bar’.”

 

“I suppose it makes sense,” Eggy finally conceded. “With all Jones’ clients in the closet, why not put the closet itself out of sight in the basement. But that still doesn’t explain why there’s a tunnel between this building and the Hotel’s ‘gay bar’.”

 

“Which is why I want to read this.” I waved Billy’s journal around triumphantly. “I’m hoping our boy Billy can solve the mystery.” I opened the book again and started on the next entry.

 

“. . . January 2nd, 1885: ‘Father has asked me to join him at the Duquesne Club this afternoon for the weekly Commerce Committee meeting. I am dreading the tedium already. My resolutions for the New Year may already be in jeopardy . . .’”

  
  


********

Chapter Music Selection -  [ Shower by Becky G ](https://youtu.be/50-_oTkmF5I) . 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5/3/19 - So, we’re moving along pretty fast now. And, again, we know that no real life case of OCD would be treated this fast, especially by a non-professional, but remember, this is fiction... TAG


	26. Dear Diary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What will the boys find out now that they have Billy's journal? Read on and see! Enjoy! TAG & Sally

 

Chapter 26 - Dear Diary.

  
  


_ “January 15, 1885: ‘I have survived another of the dreaded Commerce Committee meetings with my father. Today was worse than before, however, as Uncle Andrew was there and joined father in his lecturing about my life. I am beginning to suspect that they don’t really wish me to amend my ways, elsewise they would have no one to vent their disapproval upon. So, not only was I forced to endure the tedium of more than an hour of incomprehensible facts and figures, but afterwards I was rewarded with a dose of the family’s disapprobrium. _ ’” I continued to read aloud from Billy’s journal.

 

“This kid whines a hell of a lot,” Brian commented from his spot beside me in the bed where we were snuggled up as we read the journal together. “Kind of like someone else I know,” Brian teased, giving me a gentle squeeze to let me know he was only kidding. 

 

“Hey!” I scoffed, and gave him a little kick with my foot. Damn, I fucking loved being cuddled up with him like this. “But, yeah, he really does,” I agreed, before I went back to my reading. “Oh, hey, this part gets more interesting . . .  _ ‘The only good thing about today’s experience was that I was introduced to the newest member of the Committee, one Mr. Andrew Peebles. Peebles, it appears, is not only one of Our Fair City’s preeminent architects, but also one of the men on my Uncle’s short list to build the new Library he is contemplating for erection in Allegheny. I found Mr. Peebles to be exceedingly pleasant of manner and appearance . . . _ ’”

 

“‘Pleasant of manner and appearance’?” Brian echoed the words I’d just read. “Who the fuck talks like that? Just say he was hot and you wanted him to fuck the shit out of you, Billy. We all know that’s what you were trying to say.”

 

I swatted Brian on the stomach with the back of my hand. “They didn’t talk like that back then, you oaf. They were more . . . circumspect . . . especially if they were gay.” Then I went back to my reading, excited that the next passage was more interesting still. “ _ ‘I have accepted the invitation of Mr. Peebles to join him for a glass of sherry this Friday at the Hotel Liberty and am greatly looking forward to engaging in more stimulating conversation about his architectural works . . . _ ’”

 

“Yeah, I’m sure he’s real interested in Andy’s newest ‘Erection’,” Brian teased - making himself laugh - but then again, who among us doesn’t get amused at the occasional erection joke, right?

 

We read through a few more entries of the journal, making fun of the stilted writing style and vague allusions to Billy’s growing attraction to Andrew Peebles. But there wasn’t anything concrete to get excited about in those first several entries. Before we were even through the third week of January, I was bored. It didn’t help matters much that I was far too comfy and warm, lying there all cuddled up in Brian’s big bed. I was also still super tired after my week at the Diner. So it probably wasn’t surprising that I soon began yawning so hard that it was difficult to tell what I was saying as I read. Soon enough, Brian got annoyed by my antics and took over the reading for the both of us. Listening to his mellow, deep voice, droning on in the almost musical cadence of Billy’s writing, however, didn’t help keep me awake, and before long I felt my eyelids drooping.

 

When I woke up some time later, I discovered myself spooned up along Brian’s left side and my head pillowed by his broad chest as Brian napped beside me. My pillow was breathing deeply, letting out an adorable little wheeze on every inhalation. I just laid there and listened to the pleasant rumbling for a while, more content than I can describe. This felt right. This was where I belonged. I fit here, both physically, with the way my body and his meshed together like two puzzle pieces and the way the hollow of his shoulder seemed just the right size for my head, but also emotionally. It felt like I’d found my happy place and it turned out to be a hundred year old building in the heart of Pittsburgh occupied by a hairy hermit. Who’da thunk it, huh?

 

While I was marvelling over my luck, the hermit in question moaned in his sleep and half rolled over so that his lower body was facing me, his long right leg hooking around my left calf. My head was still resting on Brian’s shoulder, but now I was being held even tighter to him, my nose pressed against the slightly sweaty skin of his collar bone. I inhaled happily, taking in the spicy aroma of his cologne mixed with sweat and whatever it was that was inherently him. It was a heady scent. 

 

I instantly got horny.

 

Please don’t judge me. I really couldn’t help myself. I was so relaxed and comfy and warm and, by then, rested. My body was just open to any possibilities at that point. And when he held me like that, and I was forced to breathe him in, it quickly became overwhelming. It didn’t help matters much that my dick was now tightly trapped between our bodies, and every time I so much as inhaled it got jostled, and I received a thrilling little shock of friction that only compounded the problem. So can you blame me if I indulged in a few minutes of gloriously decadent frotting?

 

Before long my activities came to the notice of my previously-slumbering bed mate; it was probably that last, rather vocal, moan that I couldn’t completely stifle. Brian awoke with a groan of his own and then, with my next thrust against his hip, he used the heel hooked behind my calf to pull me around, rolling us together until I was perched on top of him, our full bodies touching with only the thin material of our sweatpants separating us. And so we frotted and squirmed together and eventually our lips made contact allowing us to add kissing into the mix and fuck me if I wasn’t just about going insane with lust by that point. It was fucking glorious!

 

Thank fuck for that tiny little voice of caution in the back of my mind, though. It kept telling me, over and over, that I couldn’t take this any further, no matter what my dick was telling me. For once I even listened to that voice of reason - which I think shows tremendous personal growth, don’t you? - pulling back right before things got to the ‘point of no return’ stage. 

 

“I think . . . I think we . . . we better . . . slow down a bit,” I panted, working hard to get my brain back online sufficiently to get actual words out. “Won’t be able . . . able to stop . . . if . . .”

 

“Who said I want you to stop,” Brian pointed out, towing my face back down so he could reach my lips again, and canting his hips upwards so that his erection ground against my own in the most delicious manner. 

 

Good point. Why was I trying to stop these wonderful feelings again? What was that we’d been saying earlier about interesting erections? “Mmmmm . . . Okay . . . Kissing good . . .”

 

But even then that nagging piece of my conscience wouldn’t let up completely. It kept bugging me, telling me that Brian might WANT to continue, but he wasn’t READY for the results. With what little was left of my rational processes, I scrambled to come up with some alternative that would work. Something that would allow us to keep on keeping on but without triggering my boyfriend’s OCD. There had to be some way to make us both happy.

 

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spied the huge organizer tray full of condoms Brian had sitting on the nightstand next to his bed. Leave it to Egbert to have organized even his condom supply, right? He couldn’t just have random half-full boxes of them stashed in some drawer like every other man in America; no, Eggy had a special, stainless steel, three-troughed, wire-mesh tray, with all his condoms perfectly lined up, every one of them facing the same way, the lines exactly even except for the first one in each row, which was slightly elevated above the rest as if waiting to be plucked free. So, of course my mind went right to, ‘why not?’.

 

Without breaking our kiss, I freed my left hand and pulled out the first one of the bunch. Of course, then I had to free my other hand in order to tear open the package, but I still managed to maintain a solid lip lock on Eggy’s mouth while I accomplished this step. In fact, it wasn’t until I began to reach between our bodies, squirming and wiggling around so that I could make enough room to reach my crotch, that Brian seemed to wig to what I was doing.

 

“Justin . . . I don’t know if I can . . .” Brian mumbled, the vibrations of his words felt against my own lips as he spoke. 

 

“I know,” I replied, adding a kiss of reassurance at the end. “Do you trust me?”

 

“Yes,” he replied without any hesitation at all, and fuck me, if that didn’t make me hornier than I already was. 

 

I gave him one more kiss, biting at his bottom lip with a tug as I pulled away, and then sat up so that I was straddling him. With Eggy watching, I unearthed my cock from the baggy sweatpants. I then very deliberately rolled the condom I’d already opened down its length. Brian was watching my every move with a hungry smile. Next, I grabbed another condom and, just as deliberately, reached out towards the waist of his matching sweats. For a split second I thought he was going to stop me, his hand darting out as if he was going to pull my hand away, but instead, he just gripped my wrist tightly as I reached inside and pulled out his beautiful dick. I wanted more than anything to take him into my mouth and suck him dry, but instead I did what I’d originally planned to do, and rolled a second condom down his length. 

 

I had seen his dick before, held it in my hand even, but I had been so busy giving the hand job of my life that I’d never noticed just how . . . big . . . he actually was. I’m not talking length here - yes he was a solid nine or so inches, I remembered that much - but the girth on that thing was pretty phenomenal. Just thinking of what he could do to my ass with that instrument had me groaning out loud and rubbing my my ass furiously against his legs like some deprived animal. 

 

Brian grinned up at me as he settled himself against a pillow and shuffled down the bed a bit until he was where he wanted us. His hands gripped my waist and I felt him bring his knees up so that I had something to lean against. 

 

I looked down at our cocks, which were resting rather heavily together and I signed happily. 

 

“So, what? You just going to sit there all day contemplating how amazing our dicks look together? Or are you going to show me what you’re made of, Sunshine?” Brian asked smugly. 

 

I totally wasn’t prepared for that much assertiveness so I sat there, on his lap, with my mouth wide open, until the hands on my waist gripped me tighter and he began moving me against him. 

 

“Imagine you’re riding me, Justin,” he ordered in this sex-heavy voice that went straight to my groin.

 

His words caused my dick to become painfully hard but I knew I wanted, more than anything, to make this good for Brian, so I had to restrain myself. I shuffled a little closer up his body and then leaned forward so I could rest my hands on either side of the pillow he was laying against. I began gyrating my hips, rocking back and forth - his cock rubbing along the crack of my ass and mine trapped between our stomachs - never breaking eye contact with him. Before I knew what was going on, Brian had manhandled me to where he wanted me and was controlling our movements with strong, self-assured, and forceful movements. He knew exactly what he was doing and, more importantly, what he wanted. 

 

All I can say is, if I had died right then, I would have died one very happy and satisfied man. 

 

Brian’s body began jerking wildly underneath me as he got closer and closer. The almost silent puffs of air he let out would be forever ingrained in my brain, like a favorite song. I closed my eyes so I could focus more intently on the delicious noises he was making. Damn, he was providing me with so much jerk off material, that I might never leave my bed again . . . well, only to do this again right here in his bed. 

 

“Look at me, Justin.”

 

I obliged, opening my eyes again and shivering as I stared into his lust-darkened eyes. 

 

“I want you looking at me when you cum. I want to watch it in your eyes. I want to see the exact moment you lose yourself to me.”

 

Those fucking words and the pressure of his hard cock grating against my ass as I rocked back and forth was what finally pushed me over the edge. I felt myself exploding from somewhere deep inside, a wash of fire flowing through every nerve ending, and my body shaking violently as my orgasm took over. I literally couldn’t see straight. I knew I was still looking into Brian’s eyes, but I saw nothing but a bright white light. At the same time, I felt the body under mine bucking and heard a groan that matched my own, only in a deeper tone, before Brian too finally came to a panting stop.

 

When my vision finally cleared, I found myself collapsed on top of Brian’s chest, huffing like I’d run a fucking marathon. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my Apple Watch flashing brightly, alerting me to my unusually high heart rate. Shit, 201 bpm? Good thing I was young and not genetically prone to heart attacks, or else shit like that would kill me, I thought with a quiet chuckle.

 

Maybe in response to my jollity, or maybe just because he wanted to, Brian took that opportunity to wrap his arms around me, holding me so tightly I felt enveloped. Not that I was gonna object; I’d never felt so cared for ever in my life. I could hear Eggy’s heart beating loudly against my ear - almost as loudly as my own - and I turned my head and dropped a kiss on his sweaty chest. He tasted salty and delicious and I wished I could bottle that taste and save it forever. 

 

“Fuck, Brian. That was . . .” I didn’t have the right words to finish that sentence so I gave up halfway through.

 

“You have . . .” Brian waited a second so he could catch his breath before continuing, “. . . no idea . . . how much I wanted that . . . Justin.”

 

I rubbed myself teasingly against his already re-hardening cock, “I have a slight idea,” I grinned. 

 

After about a half a minute more of just panting in tandem, I reached over to the nightstand and grabbed a handful of tissues,  lifted myself up, and reached into my sweats so I could pull off my condom. Brian did the same. I grabbed them both, holding them up to judge the volume of the contents, and gave my Egbert an approving look. 

 

“Fucking hell, Brian! You shoot more than a . . . I don’t know . . . more than a blue whale probably.”

 

He shook his head at my juvenile remarks and then made this disgusted face, probably grossed out by my playing around with the icky, used condoms. Not wanting to trigger him and ruin the moment, I hurried to wrap them both in tissues, making sure not to spill anything. He looked on, approvingly, as I tossed the wad I’d made towards the trash can, smiling proudly at me as I made a perfect basket. And then I moved around so I could once more assume my comfy spot, curled up like a contented cat next to him in bed. 

 

“Mmmm. I like it here,” I confessed, letting my hand drift upwards so I could play with the long hairs of his beard, creating a series of perfect little curly pyramid structures. “This feels . . . safe . . . you know?”

 

My Eggy made this happy mumbling sound in agreement.  The noise reverberated through his chest and caused me to smile. I buried my face deeper into the crook of his neck so I could breathe in his musky, sweaty goodness.

 

Which is when I realized I truly liked the people we were when we were together - and I know that sounds moronically stupid to say, but it’s the truth - we were good for each other in ways I’d never even thought about before meeting Brian. I wondered about that for a bit, and how lucky it was that I seemed to have found my person, after all the false starts and superficial relationships I’d tried in the past. I wondered if that was the way it was for everyone. Were all those romance novels right? Did you just KNOW when it was meant to be?

 

While I was waxing philosophical in my crowded and busy head, I spied Billy’s discarded journal which was lying halfway buried under Brian’s pillow. He must have dropped it when we fell asleep earlier and it got shoved aside by our happy-time antics. But thinking about Billy and Andrew, in the afterglow of our lovemaking, got me wondering again. Was Andrew the one true love of young William Carnegie? Was it like that for them? What would that journal tell me?

 

I reached over and grabbed the book without moving from my spot lying with my head on Brian’s chest, and flipped to the page where we’d left off. I briefly scanned through a couple of more mundane entries. Then I found something juicy and decided to read it aloud to my bed mate.

 

“Listen to this,” I told Brian as I recited the interesting journal entry I’d discovered. “‘ _ January 21, 1885: ‘Last night I joined Mr. Andrew Peebles for that libation that he had earlier invited me to share and, may I say, the experience was enlightening. I met Mr. Peebles (or, as he implored me to call him by his given name, Andrew) at the Club, after which he escorted me to the Hotel Liberty, a well known establishment just a block or so away, whereupon he introduced me to his circle of friends. As several of the gentlemen were already known to me, I was quickly put at ease in their company. The owner of the hotel, Mr. BF Jones (also known as ‘Beefy’ to his more intimate acquaintances) soon invited a select few of us to accompany him to his private rooms in the basement of the building. Andrew and I followed the rest and were made right at home. We proceeded to play cards and drink far more brandy that was probably good for us, causing me to become downright giddy before very long. That is likely the reason I did not take notice of the other activities going on around me until things had gotten rather scandalous. I daren’t detail all the happenings that occured, not even in the sacrosanct confines of my personal journal, for fear of discovery, but suffice it to say that I was soon exposed to things I had never thought to imagine. I fear that, should I continue my association with Andrew and his provocative friends, I shall never succeed in turning over that ‘new leaf’ my father wished for me this year. _ ’”

 

“Sounds like young Billy had a busy night,” Brian surmised with a sexy smirk. 

 

“If he was introduced to all the toys ‘Beefy’ kept in his basement, you can count on it,” I agreed. “You know . . . when I was doing my project on your building, I looked up Peebles’ history and, by the time he was building this place, he was pretty old. Like fifty or something. Which means that there was a huge age gap between him and Billy. Which is . . . kinda creepy, you know, especially if he was taking a kid like that to wild orgies and all . . .”

 

“You have a problem with older men, Kid?”

 

I laughed. “Of course not, but it’s not like you’re THAT old. Or, maybe you are, and the beard just hides it? I don’t know . . .”

 

“Bite your tongue, youngling,” Egbert ordered with a playful squeeze of my shoulders from that arm wrapped around me. “Besides, from the sounds of it, your Billy was already well on his way to debauchery before he even met Peebles. Why else would his father have been lecturing him about ‘turning over a new leaf’ and all? I don’t suppose Peebles showed the boy anything he didn’t already want to know.”

 

“Maybe. But I don’t think their relationship could have been all that strong, what with the huge disparity in their ages,” I concluded, answering my own prior musings. “I mean, if you went by what Peebles wrote in that love letter we found behind the picture, you’d think they were lovers for a lot longer than what this journal says. They’d only met in January and by May he was dedicating the building to him? It was either a whirlwind romance or just a crazy infatuation on Peebles’ part.”

 

Brian’s only answer was tapping on the edge of the journal I was still holding, indicating that I would likely find my answers, if they existed, in the book.

 

I went back to reading. There were the usual boring daily entries - Billy had been quite the diligent journaler - but it was mostly about unimportant family issues and meetings his father made him attend as Thomas tried to groom his son to eventually take over the family business. None of it made much of an impression on me. However, a couple of weeks after the entry where Billy had first gone to the Hotel Liberty, there was another entry specific to Peebles.

 

“ _ February 3, 1885: ‘Andrew is taking me to see the progress on his building today. He is rightfully proud to be the architect and owner of such an imposing edifice. He tells me it will be done later this year, of which he is glad, as he is eager to take up his next challenge. I have promised to report favorably on the work’s progress to my Uncle in the hopes that will propel Andrew higher in Uncle’s consideration for his Library project. A job such as that would be quite the feather in my Andrew’s professional cap and I shall do whatever I can to win him the honor.’ _ ”

 

“Makes you wonder what they got up to while Peebles was giving him the tour of the building, huh? What’s that old saw, ‘wanna come up to my place and see my etchings?’” I joked, enjoying laughing together with my Eggy. 

 

“If these walls could talk . . .”

 

We continued to read through the journal as the afternoon settled into evening and the weak winter sun set outside the warm confines of Eggy’s Tower. I didn’t care. I would gladly never move again if I didn’t have to. It didn’t hurt to have something interesting to occupy my thoughts as I was lolling around in Brian’s arms, though, and this journal was definitely proving to be that. 

 

“Damn! Looks like Billy’s father got wise to what he was up to at the Hotel Liberty,” I read in a subsequent entry. “Listen to this . . . ‘ _ March 8, 1885: I have had a horrible row with Father this morning and am terribly distraught. That old busybody, Reverend Clarke, and his Presbyters, have again been raising a stink over what they view as the rampant lawlessness and sin of Our Fair City. These annoying do-gooders went so far as to send a delegation to confront the City Council, wherein the Reverend called out several of what he calls ‘Dens of Iniquity’. Unfortunately, both Father and Uncle happened to be in attendance at that meeting, and were appalled to discover that the Hotel Liberty, a place I have been frequenting often over the past month or so, is included on the good Reverend’s list of places he wants eradicated. I was henceforth subjected to the familiar lecture about how I am seen as a representative of ‘The Family’ and I must mind my reputation for fear of sullying theirs . . . etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. In the end, I was threatened with financial ruin if I was ever again seen entering the doors of the dreaded establishment. But if I am forbidden that refuge, wherever shall Andrew and I find another safe haven?’ _ ”

 

“Looks like Billy got caught being naughty,” Brian summed up the entry in his usual curt way.

 

“Yeah. Poor guy. I feel for him. I remember living with a homophobic father and having to sneak out of the house all the time back when I was in high school. It wasn’t fun. But a gay boy has to do what a gay boy has to do, right?”

 

Brian shrugged. “At least until he gets caught and his father threatens to cut him off from his older lover.”

 

“We know that’s not the whole story, though,” I replied. “If it had been, we never would have found that May love letter. They must have found some way to be together, despite Billy’s dad.”

 

Luckily, I didn’t have to read much further to discover just how it was that our lovers had managed their ongoing tryst. And in the process, I also came across the answer to one of the more puzzling parts of our building’s mystery: why the hidden tunnels? 

 

“ _ March 15, 1885: My dear Andrew is such a clever fellow; I shall never doubt him again. He has solved all our problems with his architectural genius. When I came to him, in despair over the fallout from my discussions with Father and Uncle, he went right to work devising a solution, and came up with the perfect expedient. Andrew posited that the real solution was NOT that I must now begin frequenting less disreputable venues than the Hotel Liberty and any other such ‘Reprobate Establishments’, but that I should henceforth avoid being SEEN to go to these places. According to his brilliant, unconventional mind, all that was needed was a mechanism by which I could continue to join him in our usual haunts, while accessing those places via some alternative entrance. And, in mere days, he has designed me just such a contrivance! It seems that the City of Pittsburgh has already been working to facilitate our plans; they have been installing improved plumbing, sewer and gas lines throughout the downtown area by way of excavation of several utility tunnels beneath our very sidewalks, and Andrew has assured me that we can take advantage of this fact. Accordingly, he is already constructing a special tunnel, making use of the City’s existing utility excavations, to connect his new building to the Hotel Liberty. This proposed underground entrance should allow us to access all the amusements offered by Dear Beefy, without fear of detection. As I said, the man is a genius!’ _ ”

 

“Aha!” I exclaimed when I’d finished reading that particular passage. “That’s the reason for the tunnels! They were put in so Billy and his lover could continue to hang out at their favorite gay club! See? Life back then really wasn’t that different than it is today; gay boys have always had to hide from their fathers.”

 

“Only, back then, instead of secretly texting their older gay lovers, they had to build entire secret tunnels,” Eggy pointed out.

 

“Well, yeah. They did kinda go all out there, huh?

 

“Ya think?” Brian laughed, whether at me or at the image of Peebles building Billy secret tunnels, wasn’t really important. 

 

“Good thing that all I had to do to be with MY older gay lover was break into his building,” I concluded. 

 

“That is a good thing,” Eggy agreed with me. 

 

Then he knocked the journal I’d been reading out of my hands so he could roll over on top of me and distract me from any further reading by taking possession of my lips with his own. 

*********  
  
Chapter Music Selection - [Dear Diary by P!nk](https://youtu.be/zcvlnyoJ334). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to Sally for coming up with a way the boys could finally have sex despite Brian’s OCD! Things are moving quite fast now, don’t you think. Imagine how good it will be when Brian’s meds kick in? And the building mystery plot is also coming along nicely now that they have the journal. There’s still so much good stuff coming up, though . . . Enjoy! TAG & Sally!


	27. Chocolate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's hungry for some chocolate? Justin, that's who! Enjoy! TAG & Sally.

 

Chapter 27 - Chocolate.

  
  


I stayed over at Eggy’s again that night, only this time I wasn’t relegated to the guest room, and that made all the difference in the world. We read some more in Billy’s journal, we talked, we kissed and, before we finally settled down for the night, we once again did our sorta, kinda, partially clothed and fully suited up, sex thing. Don’t judge! It worked for us and that was all that mattered.

 

Unfortunately, my winter break was over and I had to go back to school again the following morning. It was probably for the best, though, because Eggy needed to work too and we couldn’t spend ALL our time in bed together. I wish! Anyway, I headed off to class, ready to start in on a whole new term of projects and fun while Egbert headed to his office for the day. 

 

I was more than happy with my new classes. The Graphic Design course I’d signed up for was going to be fun, as was the printmaking class, but it was the Painting Processes class that I was really looking forward to, even though it would probably be the most challenging. And, for my core classes, I was taking a History of the Renaissance class as well as Modern Poetry, both of which should be a relatively easy ‘A’ for me as I’d had similar classes in High School. 

 

In between my classes, I continued to read through Billy’s Journal. The entries were definitely beginning to heat up as the year progressed. Throughout March and into April, Peebles’ name began to show up more and more often. Reading between the lines, I could tell that Andrew was wooing Billy pretty hard. And, maybe I was reading too much into the narrative because of my own bias, but it seemed to me like Billy was reluctant to accept all of Andrew’s overtures, even though he was obviously enjoying all the new and likely eye opening experiences that being Andrew’s acolyte afforded. Reading about it all, though, felt a bit like reading some Victorian romance novel, what with all the veiled yet steamy references to sex. If Billy was getting laid even half as much as he alluded to, that boy must have been busy.

 

I was immersed in reading another such passage while I chowed down on my lunch in the TAIP cafeteria when my romantic fantasies were interrupted by the arrival of a group of friends who came to join my table. I happily made room for them, clearing away my drawing pad and the random pencils I’d left scattered around, and set Billy’s journal aside as well. It wasn’t until Patrick and Connor took up their seats across from me that I noticed Zeboria, the third member of the group, wasn’t alone. Z was accompanied by none other than my old stalker, Ethan Gold. What made it even worse was, by the time Z took a seat next to Connor, the only chair left at our table was the one right next to me. 

 

“Hey, J, you know Ethan, right?” Zeboria introduced us, oblivious to the disdainful look I was already shooting the musician.

 

“Yeah, we’ve met,” I responded tersely without even gracing the newcomer seated beside me with so much as a glance. 

 

Ethan returned the favor, ignoring me back, which was fine with me actually. I had nothing to say to him. But it probably wasn’t surprising that I didn’t stick around for long after that. I just didn’t feel comfortable around Ethan any more, especially knowing his propensity for reading some tacit hint of attraction into my every action. I had just barely managed to get him to back off after our blow up, and the last thing I needed was for him to mistakenly think I’d changed my mind. So I soon scarfed down what was left of my lunch, said goodbye to my friends, and made my escape. And, since it was almost time for me to get to my Poetry class, I went straight to that classroom and killed the time until the professor arrived by reading more from Billy. 

 

After that class was over, I rushed away from campus as fast as I could. I know I’d only just left Egbert’s a few hours earlier, but I was almost desperate to get back to him. Young love and all, right? While I was waiting for the bus, however, I noticed how horribly chapped my lips were - collateral damage from all the kissing Eggy and I had been doing lately, I suppose - and decided to pop into the corner pharmacy to get some lip balm. I needed to have soft, supple, kissable lips for my Brian, right? 

 

Probably due to the horribly cold weather Pittsburgh had been suffering through, the display for my favorite type of lip balm - Burt’s Bees - was empty. I asked the clerk if he had more and he agreed to to go check for me in the back. While I was waiting, I ambled around the store, perusing the shelves, only half paying attention to what I was seeing since my mind was still caught up in the story from Billy’s journal. 

  
  


It wasn’t until my rambling took me down the aisle where they kept the ‘intimate personal care’ items that I started to pay attention. This particular pharmacy, which was right off Liberty Avenue, seemed to have a larger than normal stock of these items. There was everything a gay man or woman might need: special soaps for intimate places, gels and creams with uses I didn’t want to think about, and about a dozen different kinds of hemorrhoid cures. There was also a whole section dedicated solely to lubricants. Who even knew that they had that many types of lube? I longingly looked at a few of the more interesting offerings, but knew it was gonna be quite some time before Eggy and I would need that. However, right next to the lubes was another display of items the two of us could put to use right away - condoms! 

 

I enthusiastically scanned through the truly impressive selection the store carried; there were just so many fun options! I quickly skipped over all the ribbed and textured types, because we weren’t ready for that yet, before I came across several kinds of of flavored condoms. That gave me a wickedly decadent idea and I immediately picked out two boxes. Luckily, the clerk returned ten seconds later with my lip balm and I was off, fully supplied with everything I’d need for Eggy’s next big adventure! 

 

Twenty minutes later I was kicking at the lobby door of Brian’s building, my hands filled with our usual coffee drinks, and my mind occupied with this evening’s plans for my hermit’s delectable body. Brian and Bill were both galloping down the stairs a half a minute later and they both looked happy to see me. I almost didn’t have time to open Bill’s creamer before Bill’s person grabbed my hand and started towing me up the stairs so fast I almost fell over my own feet. I guess Brian was just as eager to see me as I was to see him.

 

As soon as we reached Brian’s room on the top floor, he towed me over to the couch and pulled me down into his lap. It’s not like I was gonna object or anything, but the urgency of his actions was kinda sweet. Before I knew what hit me, his lips had suctioned themselves to my own and we were right back where we’d left off earlier that morning.

 

I seriously can’t remember the last time I had actually sat down and made out with someone for so long. Things had definitely progressed between Brian and I; we kissed practically every time we saw each other, we regularly participated in deliciously wet handjobs in the shower, and then last night we’d more or less fucked with our clothes on. It was the closest his dick had ever gotten to my ass, and damn it had felt good. If you had told me a few months ago that I would get off from dry humping a hot guy, with a condom and pair of sweats between us, I would have laughed in your face. But somehow it ended up being one of the hottest and most intense sexual experiences of my life. Hell, if and when we actually do get to fuck, I’ll probably die from the pleasure of it all. Anyway, that experience already felt like too long ago, what with a whole school day in the middle and all. And I was more than happy, as soon as I arrived at my Eggy’s tower that afternoon, to be greeted with a good old kissathon. 

 

“I love kissing you,” I whispered, as I pulled back slightly and rubbed our noses together like some love sick fool, which caused Brian to shake his head and laugh at me, before he pulled me back in for some more wet, open-mouthed lip locking. 

 

At some point in the proceedings, I felt Brian scoot back a little in his seat on the couch and bring one of his legs up onto the sofa. He then moved me so I was sitting in between his thigh, my legs draped over the top of his. I loved being surrounded by him like that. His dick was already rock hard and pressing against the fly of his jeans and it reminded me of the little present I had picked up on my way over. I couldn’t wait to get started on the experiment I had planned; I hoped I wasn’t pushing things with Brian, but if he let me . . . Fuck, I couldn’t even think about it what I would do if he agreed. Or, for that matter, what I’d do if he didn’t agree.

 

“What’s up?” Eggy asked as he felt me pull back and reach for my bag that I’d dumped on the floor next to the sofa. 

 

I felt for the box with my hand and threw it into Brian’s lap, making sure that I watched his face carefully to see what sort of reaction this little gift of mine would make. 

 

He scrunched his nose up and looked at me. “Flavored condoms?”

 

“Sooo, here’s what I was thinking,” I jumped in quickly as I didn’t want Eggy to start jumping to conclusions in his head, the way I knew he would. 

 

“I love your cock,” I told him honestly. I smiled over at him and reached down, making sure to give him a nice, firm squeeze through his jeans. The feeling of his dick swelling through the material was almost enough for me to lose my train of thought. 

 

“Really? I would never guess,” he groaned quietly, but smiled as he continued teasing me, his body subconsciously moved him further down the sofa cushions so that he was practically slouching. “You should make it more obvious.”

 

“Well, funny you should say that, because I was thinking . . .” I picked the box back up and bit down nervously on the cardboard. I wasn’t sure what I was nervous about exactly, because I wanted this . . . and I wanted Brian to want it just as much as me. 

 

“. . .” he gestured with his hand that I should continue talking.

 

Like the smooth guy that I am, I ended up blurting it out. “I want to suck you off.”

 

Brian’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. 

 

“Justin . . . I don’t know if I . . .”

 

There goes that damn brain of his again, I wish it would mind its own fucking business. 

 

“Just listen to me, ‘kay?” I asked, placing my hand back on his denim clad dick. 

 

Brian nodded and nudged my hand to continue its exploring. 

 

“I know this might not be something you’re ready to do on me . . . yet . . . and I’m totally okay with that,” I assured him. “But I thought maybe with a condom on you might be alright with me doing it to you.”

 

I watched as he took in everything I had said, his tongue was nestled deep into his cheek as though he was contemplating something. 

 

“So, why the flavors?” 

 

I shrugged. “I thought it would be fun.”

 

“Are you saying sucking my plain flavored, condom-covered dick would be boring?” The asshole was smirking . . . but did this mean he was okay with my plan?

 

“Yeah who wants plain and boring, when you can have . . .” I turned the box over and read through the selection contained within, picking out one flavor at random. “Bubblegum.”

 

“No.” He shook his head in disgust. 

 

“Oooh, cake batter.” I licked my lips and ripped open the box, giving it a quick sniff.

 

“You are not making my dick taste like a fucking birthday cake.” It was quite funny how appalled he actually looked. 

 

I wrinkled my nose at the next one. “Ewww, bacon.”

 

“Well, it IS a tasty piece of meat . . .”

 

I threw my head back and laughed. It didn’t matter how much I loved bacon, that was definitely not the one I would be picking. “Okay, if you’re not up for one of the more exotic flavors, that leaves either chocolate or vanilla . . . I think I’m going to go with vanilla,” I smiled at my choice. 

 

“I think I object to my cock being called ‘vanilla’,” Eggy protested with a shake of his head. 

 

“Fine. Sheesh. For someone who wasn’t sure he even wanted to do this, you’re sure bossy,” I complained, pulling the one last non-objectionable flavor out of the box and trailing the scratchy edge of the packaging down his abs. “That leaves only chocolate. Is that acceptable to you, Mr. Picky?”

 

“I suppose.” He shrugged. “I mean, I’m not  _ that _ bothered, pick whatever you want. . .”

 

I easily saw through his pretend indifference. His already hard dick was now straining at the restriction of his jeans, making the fabric pull against the buttons. My guy was just as excited about the prospect of this new permutation as I was. Which meant it was time to move things along here. 

 

I made short work of those buttons, opening the fly of his jeans, pulling his briefs down, and releasing the beast within. Damn, I wasn’t just kidding about how much I had come to love his dick. Once freed, it stood there, sprouting from the center of a bed of curly, dark auburn pubes, projecting upwards, tall and proud, the color an almost angry mauve except for the lighter-colored cap, and the texture all smooth, silk-covered steel. My mouth literally watered as I looked at it. I wanted to take him between my lips and taste him so badly. So bad in fact that I had to reach into my pants and give myself a hard squeeze to try and ease some of the pressure in my own dick. 

 

It was a temptation too strong to resist, even though I knew Eggy wasn’t completely there yet, but I just HAD to bend down and leave one, tiny, closed-mouthed kiss right on the leaking tip. Even that small transgression was too much for him, though, and I felt him shift away from me. I had to rein myself in; I wanted to do this right for him, and for me, not cause him distress. So, before I could get myself into trouble, I quickly tore open the condom packet with my teeth, extracted the chocolate-brown piece of latex, and immediately began rolling it over the object of my attentions. I felt Brian relax slightly the second I started. Oh well, I’d have to set aside my fantasies about tasting him for another time. Still, I managed to lick my lips surreptitiously while Brian’s eyes were closed, savoring the small sample of his jizz that remained from my kiss, and told myself I could wait for more.

 

I didn’t have the leisure of dwelling in my fantasies for long, though - I had a task to accomplish - so I re-focused my attention on the work in front of me. I finished sheathing him up and then resituated myself so I was kneeling on the floor between his wide spread knees. I made a few passes with my hand up and down his length just to renew his hard on and then it was go time. I slowly leaned forward, trying to eke out the anticipation a little longer, teasing him by hovering just millimeters from making contact, and causing him to cant his hips upward in frustration. I capitulated with a chuckle, opening wide and letting my lips slide down, over the swollen head, past the ridge at the bottom of the flared cap, and then further still, until I felt his dick tickling against the back of my palate. I hummed approvingly and pulled back just far enough so my tongue could circle around him, licking at the chocolatey tasting condom with approval. It wasn’t bad. I would have still loved tasting him raw instead, but until that happened, this was acceptable. 

 

“Mmmmm. That feels so . . . oh, fuck, Sunshine,” Brian started to moan and babble as I set to work for real. He was pulling at my hair with both hands as if searching for a real handhold. I loved that I seemed able to break through the stoic front he usually tried to maintain. And the more I sucked and licked and hummed around his dick, the more vocal my stylite became. “Shit! More . . . More . . . There, yes . . . Oh, fuck . . .”

 

It really didn’t take long at all. In less than ten minutes I could tell he was ready to shoot. I began to massage his balls with one hand while I snaked the other up his chest, twisting one perky nipple for added effect. I could hear the uptick in his rate of breathing and feel the way his body was practically vibrating. I was almost getting off just listening to his joyful little moans and gurgles. And then there was the familiar moment when it all came together; his balls contracted and the cock in my mouth bucked as I sucked him as deeply as I could go. I felt him shaking through his orgasm, the reservoir at the tip of the condom filling and heating up, and then he slumped backwards like his bones had all melted in the conflagration. 

I sat back and smiled smugly up at him. “Proud of yourself?” he asked.

 

“Exceedingly!” I winked, before reaching into my bag and pulling out some napkins I’d grabbed with that afternoon's coffee run. I then carefully peeled the condom off of Brian, making sure nothing leaked, and patted him clean with my napkins. Once the condom was wrapped up and safely out of sight I couldn’t help but ask, despite knowing full well I was a solid 10, because if there’s one thing I exceed at in this world, it’s sucking cock, but still, I was curious . . . “So, how did I do?”

 

“Brat!”

 

“Shut up. You know you love my bratty side.” I laughed heartily as I reached down and began to pull his boxers and jeans back up for him. Brian helped out by lifting his ass up without me even having to ask, demonstrating just how comfortable the man had become with our escapades. I was training him so well. I then crawled up and made myself comfortable on his lap, curling around him like a needy kitten. 

 

“May I help you?” He asked, smiling one of the biggest smiles I had ever seen from him. 

 

“I’m hungry,” I blurted out. Sometimes I swear I have no control over what I’m about to say. 

 

“You just ate,” he chuckled. 

 

“Eating your cock doesn’t count, even if it did taste like chocolate. I need real carbs, damn it!” I insisted. “Actually, I need chocolate. Ooooo, I know! I want some M&Ms! Your choco-cock gave me a craving.”

 

“I don’t keep that shit in my house.”

 

I exhaled dramatically. “I know. Which means I’m going to have to venture out and get something. I may die of hunger otherwise.”

 

Reluctantly I climbed down off his comfy lap and sighed. I noticed the abandoned coffees sitting on the nearby table. They were obviously cold by that point, so basically inedible. So much for my coffee-based-OCD therapy for that afternoon.

 

Brian must have noticed the direction of my gaze as he offered a sort of apology. “I didn’t mean to distract you and waste your coffee.”

 

“No problem, it was definitely worth it - anyway, I can get more if I’m going out for chocolate.”

 

He seemed sheepish, “I’d offer to pay but I don’t actually have any cash in the house . . .” He looked uncomfortable for a minute but then bravely finished what he had been going to say. “. . . paper money kinda grosses me out anyway. Too many people touch it. It’s better to just buy over the internet, you know?”

 

“I know, Eggy,” I reassured him that I understood with a squeeze to his shoulder. “But no worries. I have a punch card somewhere in here.” I pulled the item out of the front pocket of my bag triumphantly. “And, since I’ve already bought you 10 drinks, the next one is free!”

 

“Frugal . . .” he conceded.” 

 

“You forget, I’m a starving artist. I have to pinch pennies,” I explained. Before heading to the door, though, I remembered the other thing besides the flavored condoms that I’d been excited to share with my hermit that day, and fished Billy’s journal out of my bag as well. “While I’m gone, you should check out the entries for the beginning of May. There’s some interesting things going on in your building in those entries.”

 

Brian used a couple of tissues to take the book out of my hand and then I was off to scavenge myself some sugar and caffeine to tide me over till dinner. 

 

When I came back about half an hour later, a bag full of junk food and two fresh coffees in my hands, Brian was still on the sofa where I’d left him, the journal in his lap, and a thoughtful look on his handsome face.

 

“Found anything good?” I asked, handing him the Chai Tea I’d bought him - which he took right off the bat without any hesitation at all, my brave boy!

 

Brian seemed too engrossed in what he was reading to even notice that he’d taken a sip of the tea. I silently thrilled at the progress we were making. Not that I would ever say anything, because why jinx it, right? I was glad to see that he seemed to like the chai, though, judging by the way he stopped after that first taste, took a deeper sniff at the steam wafting out of the hole in the lid, and then tried another, larger, sip. It seemed we had a winner in the drinks department. 

 

“I found the entry for the day Peebles finished the building,” Brian advised, setting aside the drink to raise the book he’d been reading. “ _ May 6, 1885: Today was the celebration marking the completion of my dear Andrew’s building. It is a truly exemplary edifice; the bold triangular design, the noble architecture, not to mention the fact that it is now the tallest structure in the vicinity, all make it stand out from the more menial buildings that surround it. I could not be prouder of Andrew and was gratified to have been included amongst those at the ribbon cutting to commemorate the occasion. I am obviously not alone in these sentiments either, if the turn out for the Opening Day Ceremonies are anything to judge by; at times the gathering looked more like a City Council meeting than a party. I also finally met Andrew’s partner - the heretofore mysterious and faceless J. Frick - who attended the festivities with his wife, Alma. Mr. Frick was quite solicitous and charming, doing his best to make one and all feel appreciated, all while working diligently to find takers for the remaining offices that are as yet unlet. I was entirely won over by the man, so much so that I allowed myself to be persuaded to accept an invitation to take tea with the Fricks next Tuesday . . .”  _

 

Brian handed the journal over to me so I could scan the entry myself as he added, “Looks like Peebles better watch out; his boy has what they would have called back then, ‘a wandering eye’.”

 

I shrugged. “Maybe, but Frick was married - we know that from the history book you have in your office - so I doubt Peebles was too worried.”

 

“Married, but obviously not above cheating on said wife. Besides, he wouldn’t be the first gay man to have a wife and family. Weren't you the one talking about how closeted they all were back then? A wife can make for a great beard, you know,” Brian hypothesized.

 

By that point I’d already flopped down on the sofa next to my Eggy and ripped into the bag of M&Ms I’d brought back with me. Brian gave me a look that probably had something to do with the fact I was eating with my hands right out of the bag, but I figured it was good for him to constantly push his limits, so I just carried on. Meanwhile I skimmed over the next few entries of Billy’s memories until I found another interesting one.

 

“Hmm. You may be right, Eggy. Listen to this _ : ‘May 11, 1885: Andrew and I joined Mr. Frick and his wife for tea this evening. It was an eminently pleasant experience. Mrs. Frick is an accomplished artist and took the occasion to present her husband and his partner with a lovely drawing she had done of the completed building.”  _ So that answers the mystery of who drew that picture of the building at least,” I commented before delving back into the journal. “‘ _ Andrew vowed to hang this wonderful piece of art in a place of prominence the Boardroom, which greatly pleased the artist. The evening was only marred when Mrs. Frick was forced to excuse herself on account of a troublesome bout of neuralgia. However, after our female companion withdrew, we men took ourselves off to Andrew’s basement hideaway for more manly pursuits than tea (comprised mostly of cigars and brandy). I was loathe to agree to this relocation at first, fearful of the reaction Andrew and I might get from Frick, but was quickly dissuaded from my trepidation. Frick proved perfectly convivial and accepting of our special arrangement. He assured me, repeatedly, that he and Andrew had an understanding and, although he himself was a married man, he had no antipathy towards those of us inclined towards perpetual bachelorhood. And so the evening passed in happy comradeship.”  _

 

“Well, at least he wasn’t a homophobe,” Brian concluded.

 

“If Frick and Peebles were business partners, I suppose he would have had to know something was off about him. I wonder how Alma felt about all that, though? Based on that letter she wrote Jay, I’d say she was a lot less open minded than her husband.” 

 

“Or, maybe it was just the adultery thing rather than the gay thing,” Brian suggested. “I hear women are kinda uptight about that shit?”

 

I laughed because Eggy’s take on things was so warped sometimes - especially since he knew nothing about women whatsoever - but his skewed perspective was one of the reasons I loved him. I liked being shown the world from a different angle. I liked trying to figure him out. I liked the challenge of him. Fuck, I’m so pathetic, aren’t I? Oh well, it seemed to work for us, so why fight it. 

 

And speaking of the two of us working so well together . . . I wiggled around on the sofa, making myself even more comfortable, with my head in Brian’s lap and my feet propped up on the far armrest, my bag of chocolates close by, and the journal resting against a convenient pillow. Eggy used his left arm to help steady the book and with his free hand he began to play with my hair. And then, once we were all settled again, we dove back into the mystery of our long-dead lovers, losing track of time as we read about the difficulties of gay life back in the nineteenth century.

 

“Oh, hey, look!” I pointed out an entry from mid-June to the man who was reading over my shoulder. “This explains why the tunnel didn’t just end at the Liberty Hotel . . . ‘ _ While the expedient of our secret underground entrance to Beefy’s Bagnio has worked quite well so far, I fear that my father is becoming suspicious of the excessive visits I have been making to Andrew’s offices. From certain comments he let slip yesterday evening at a social event we were all obligated to attend at the Club, it appears that he is becoming critical of a certain local architect. This negativity raised its head while Father and Uncle were again discussing the proposed Library plans and their search for an architect. I spoke up immediately in favor of Andrew, wherein my father commented that it has already become more than clear just how much I favored Mr. Peebles. And again, later, when I saw Uncle conversing with Andrew’s primary rival, Mr. Henry Hobson Richardson, I tried to redirect his attentions back towards my own favorite architect, only to be whisked away by Father for yet another lecture. Father was very pointed about his disapproval of how much time I had been spending in Mr. Peebles’ company of late, and how many in our social circles has begun whispering about our association. Needless to say, Father was not at all pleased, as he is always so very defensive on the matter of our family’s reputation. I fear that I must curtail my future visits to Andrew’s abode or risk not only exposing our special kindredship but possibly also harming Andrew’s future professional opportunities. However, when I quietly mentioned the same to him later that night, Andrew refused to concede to my warnings. He professed that he can not bear the thought of the two of us parting and insisted that he will somehow find another solution. When I jokingly suggested that he would have to build us yet another tunnel so that I can be NOT seen going to his building so as to NOT be seen going to Beefy’s, he actually thought that a brilliant suggestion. At this rate, it seems, Andrew will be forced to build us tunnels all over the city just so we can carry on with our clandestine activities. I do not know how this will end . . .’” _

 

“Man, Peebles really must’ve had it bad for Young Billy,” Brian stated, voicing the exact same thing I’d been thinking. “I mean, come on . . . how many tunnels did this guy think he could get away with building just so nobody would know he was boning the son of one of the City’s most prominent leaders?”

 

“Well, we know he got away with at least one more, since that tunnel that leads from your basement to the Hotel Liberty goes on from there to points unknown,” I concluded with a sigh, setting aside the book and twisting around so I was looking directly up at my man. “And I think it was romantic the way Peebles was trying to do everything he could to protect Billy. I mean, think of all the effort and expense he went to. Even if those tunnels were basically already started by the City for sewer lines or something, somebody obviously made them much more extensive and much less sewer-like, and that couldn’t have been easy. Peebles was obviously willing to move mountains - or at least tunnel through mountains - for his lover. You don’t think that’s kinda sweet?”

 

“I think it’s kinda foolish,” was Brian’s no-nonsense judgment. “Peebles was risking a hell of a lot - his entire career - just for a nice piece of chicken? I hope this Billy kid was worth it.”

 

“Yeah,” I sighed, a little put off by my boyfriend’s unromantic side. “Makes you wonder though . . . where does that other arm of the tunnel go to?”

  
*********

  
  
Chapter Music Selection -  [ Chocolate by Snow Patrol ](https://youtu.be/XglYHF-EnxQ) . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the historical plot line is getting pretty heated just as our boys’ love life is heating up too . . . Don’t you just love it when everything comes together like this? LOL. TAG & Sally.


	28. The Adventure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Justin and Daphne are back in the tunnels... Enjoy! TAG & Sally

 

Chapter 28 - The Adventure.

  
  


Despite all my pushing, I couldn’t get Eggy to agree to let me go back down into his basement so I could find out where that remaining arm of the tunnel led. He was getting so much better about things lately that I didn’t expect such a backlash. But he was adamant that I wasn’t going back into that ‘damned tunnel’ alone no matter how much the mystery of it was killing me.

 

For the next week or so, though, my life got busy and, for a while at least, even I didn’t have time to think about Billy, Peebles, or their tunnels. My new classes were interesting and challenging, but the professors all started heaping on more homework than was physically possible to accomplish in the time given. Debbie was in a bind because one of her waiters quit on her without notice, so she was begging me to take whatever Diner shifts I could fit in between classes. My mother was off on a tangent where she had decided that we needed to do more ‘family’ stuff together and demanded that I come out to her condo for dinner at least a couple of times a week. And somehow I still had to fit in time to stop in to see Eggy, because I couldn’t live without my daily hermit fix. But with all that going on, you can see why there wasn’t time to read more of Billy’s journal, let alone go tunnel exploring. 

 

It wasn’t until about a week or so later - after I got a demanding text from Daphne ordering me to actually come home that night and spend time with her or else she’d throw all my stuff out on the sidewalk (and she would totally do it, too) - that I had enough downtime to think about what we’d already discovered.

 

“So, this Billy guy was boning your architect, Peebles, who was so heels-over-head in loveee with the boy that he put in all these tunnels all over the city so they wouldn’t get caught?” Daphne summed up the state of things after I showed her the journal and explained the story. “That’s kinda romantic,” she sighed dreamily as she ran her fingers over the browning pages. “I mean, romantic but completely crazy at the same time,” she laughed. “I think I’d call the police if some guy from work did that.”

 

“I know, right? And the worst part is, going by some of the stuff Billy was saying, he wasn’t nearly as into Peebles as Peebles was into him.” I took back the bowl of popcorn that Daphne was bogarting and stuffed some in my maw. “I kinda feel bad for Peebles, you know? He seems like a nice guy, even if he was way too old for a kid like Billy, but he really did do everything he could to protect his younger lover. Somehow, though, I don’t see it ending well.”

 

“That sucks. I mean, you build like a million miles of tunnels so your lover won’t get caught by his overbearing family and then the kid doesn’t even appreciate it? That’s kinda douchey.” Daphne popped open the top of a soda can to wash down her last handful of popcorn. “So, does the journal say where the other part of the tunnel goes?”

 

“No. At least not the parts of the journal I’ve read so far. I haven’t read the whole thing, though. I’ve been . . . busy.”

 

Daphne laughed at my understatement. “No duh! I was beginning to wonder if you even remembered how to get back here.” She tossed a kernel of popcorn into my face and giggled at me when I gave her a dirty look. “If I hadn’t ordered you back here tonight, your bed might still be unused.”

 

“Probably. But why would I want to sleep here . . . alone . . . when I’ve got a much better bed, one filled with a hot hermit, to sleep in instead,” I stated, blushing at my confession.

 

“Get out!” Daphne practically screamed my ear off, slugging me in the shoulder to emphasize just how excited she was. “You and Eggy are actually sleeping together? How did you work that? And what ELSE are you doing together? Huh? Tell me EVERYTHING and leave nothing out.”

 

So I filled her in, because Daph and I had always shared pretty much everything, and this was one thing that I was certainly happy to brag about. She seemed really impressed by how quickly Brian had progressed considering the extent of his OCD symptoms. I attributed it all to my amazing therapy acumen. Daphne said it was more likely due to my amazingly shapely ass. We both ended up giggling away together like loons. 

 

When we finally sobered up, the conversation turned back to more serious matters, like the ongoing mystery underlying my Hermit’s building. “So, when are we gonna go find out where that tunnel leads to? If it’s not in the journal, we need to investigate personally, right?”

 

“I would, but Brian’s super freaked out by even the idea of me going back into those tunnels. I mean, he’s doing so much better these days, and I don’t want to undermine all that goodness by pushing too far. But, yeah, personally I’d love to finish exploring down there. Considering what I found in the basement of the Hotel Liberty, can you imagine what else might be down there?”

 

“I know, right? It’s like looking for buried pirate treasure or something,” Daph enthused, an eager glint in her big brown eyes. 

 

“Well, I don’t know about any treasure, but I sure as shit want to find the answers to all this mystery,” I agreed with her. “You know how much I hate it when I’ve got some puzzle that I can’t quite solve. It eats at me until I figure it out. And this is one huge fucking puzzle.”

 

We sat around talking it all through for the rest of the evening until we ran out of popcorn and soda. The upshot of the conversation was that Daphne agreed to pick me up from TAIP after I got out of class the next day so she could accompany me back into Egbert’s tunnels. We figured that, with the both of us ganging up on him, Eggy wouldn’t be able to resist our pleading and would allow us to continue our adventuring. It had always worked on our parents, so I had high hopes that together we’d wear him down. 

 

“Hey, Eggy! Long time no see, Handsome!” Daphne greeted my poor unsuspecting recluse when we showed up en masse at his door the next afternoon. 

 

“Uh, yeah, hi, Daphne . . .” 

 

Brian looked like he was about to bolt for about a half a second, so I swooped in and distracted him with a nice, long, slow, intense kiss that left us both so breathless and hard that I almost forgot Daph was still standing there.

 

“Don’t mind her, Eggy. Daph just came by to be my wing person and safety monitor while I invade your basement again,” I explained when the kissing ended, trying to joke my way through the shitstorm I knew was coming.

 

“Justin, I told you, I don’t think it’s a good idea to be messing around in hundred and twenty year old tunnels . . .”

 

“I know. I know. But I just can’t stand not knowing, Eggy. Besides, the tunnels have held up this long, I don’t see why my going down there would cause them to come tumbling down. Plus, as long as I have Daph with me as my backup, she’ll make sure nothing bad happens to me. Right, Daph?”

 

Daphne nodded emphatically, but nothing seemed to dissuade Brian of his nebulous fears about all the bad things that were going to happen to us if we went back down into the tunnels. Finally, Daphne, expeditious as always, just took matters into her own hands, ignored Brian’s ongoing protests, and headed into the old pizza place on her own. Brian and I trotted after her. When we all came to the locked door that led down to the basement, Daph stood there, pointing authoritatively at the lock and giving Brian that look like he was a naughty toddler who needed to buck up already. It worked on him just as well as it had always worked on me. In mere seconds, Eggy was obediently unlocking the door and then standing back so that Daph and I could precede him down the narrow stairs. 

 

Brian was more than a little antsy as I worked the secret door to the hidden room and then pushed the big chest of drawers away so we could open the door to the tunnel. Out of the corner of my eye I could see his fingers nervously twisting at the hem of the t-shirt he was wearing. I felt for him, really, I did, but not enough to stop. Despite my earlier misadventure and sprained ankle, I knew there wasn’t any real danger in going into the tunnels again. He was just projecting his fears onto me. There wasn’t any way to prove that to him, though, without just doing it. Or at least that’s what I thought at the time. 

 

Meanwhile, Daphne was rifling through my bag and pulling out the flashlights we’d brought, making sure that they were working and the beams were bright and strong. When the door was opened, she bounced over to me and handed off one of the flashlights. I could tell by the bubbling energy wafting off her that my BFF was just a tiny bit excited by the prospect of our adventure. However, before I could join her in her fervor, I had to take care of my man.

 

Walking up to Brian I boldly wrapped my arms around his waist and pulled him close enough for a reassuring kiss. “We’ll be fine, Eggy. I promise.”

 

“You can’t promise that. You have no fucking idea what’s down there,” he countered stubbornly.

 

“You’re right. I don’t. Oooh, maybe there’s a scary monster that’s been locked down there since time began,” I smiled. 

 

“Justin, don’t fucking patronize me,” he sighed loudly and pulled me in tighter, our bodies now pressed firmly together. 

 

“I know. I’m sorry. If it makes you feel any better I’m pretty sure it’s just a long, empty, unused tunnel,” I replied, losing my battle with my sense of humor and adding, “but if we come across a nest of vampires or a dragon’s den, at least I’ll have died in an exciting and memorable way, right?”

 

“Brat!” he complained, with a hint of a smile finally breaking through the mask of worry.

 

“Now, we’re determined to find the end of the tunnel, so it might take a while, okay? I don’t want you freaking out if we’re not back in ten minutes or anything. But I promise not to dilly dally or anything, and we’ll come right back here as soon as we can.” He looked ready to panic again. “You know, you don’t have to stay down here and wait for us. You can go back upstairs. Do something productive, or at least distracting, so you’re not just standing here, imagining the worst, and coming unglued.”

 

Brian shook his head. “Nope. I’m staying down here. I don’t think I could concentrate on anything else.”

 

“Fine. Suit yourself, Eggy.” I freed myself from his arms and joined Daphne at the tunnel entrance. “Okay. Be right back . . .”

 

We stepped into the murkiness of the long dark tunnel, leaving Eggy standing sentinel in the doorway, and headed off on our mission of discovery. I was well familiar with the first leg of the tunnel so we didn’t waste any time, trotting around all the piles of rubble, past the skylights, and then around the first bend. Daph took the lead through the second section, beating me to the door of the Hotel Liberty and then yelling for me to hurry up. I hadn’t bothered to lock up after my previous visit, though, so she already had the door opened by the time I caught up to her. We scrambled through the door and I flicked the switch that lit up the big glass light fixtures, illuminating the red-bedecked room. 

 

“Wow! Sweet!” Daphne exclaimed as she ran her fingers along the dusty top of the long bar. “This place is legit. I could so see us hanging out here and drinking some night. Too bad the folks upstairs don’t even know it exists.”

 

“All the better for us to keep it to ourselves,” I replied. “A secret hideaway isn’t any fun if it isn’t secret.”

 

“True dat!” she agreed with me. “So, show me all the antique dildos!” Daphne, straight to the point as usual. 

 

I obliged, pulling open the cupboard and showing her the drawers, laughing as Daph exclaimed over all the dangerous looking toys she found. And while she was doing that, I took a minute or two to examine the side wall, looking for some mechanism that might open up a hidden door to the rest of the building. It took a little bit of searching, but eventually I discovered that the crack between the wall and the panelling that made up the last section of the shelving behind the bar was a larger, darker gap than necessary. Trailing my fingers over the woodwork, I found a piece of decorative scrollwork that, when pressed, seemed to give. I heard a metallic click and then stepped back with a triumphant smile as that whole section of shelving swivelled inward. 

 

“Aha! Found the exit!” I announced to my friend. 

 

Daph joined me and we peeked our heads around the opening, finding nothing more than another small, almost empty, basement room. In the corner I could see some HVAC equipment and there was the usual pile of random junk piled around, but nothing of real interest. Which was good, because I really didn’t want to spend my time here anyway; I wanted to follow that tunnel.

 

“You seen enough for now?” I asked my companion in crime, and Daphne nodded her agreement. “Okay. Let’s go find out where our tunnel leads.”

 

We shut the basement door to Beefy’s Bar and Dildo Emporium and made sure the drawers and cupboards were all closed as well, then switched off the lights and headed back out. The tunnel took a sharp left turn - more than ninety degrees - just beyond the door that led into the Hotel Liberty, so we headed around this corner and flashed our lights along the next, unknown, stretch of darkness. 

 

This section of the tunnel looked, if anything, more disused than the section closer to Eggy's building. It was darker too. There was only one, exceedingly dim, patch of light at the far end of the passageway, but it wasn’t nearly enough to illuminate the space to any reasonable degree. There was also a lot more damage to the walls and ceiling in this section. The piles of loose bricks and assorted rubble made the floor almost unnavigable in spots. At one point there had even been a small cave in on the right side, the crumbled brick and cement exposing a cracked metal pipe that dribbled foul-smelling liquid into a muddy puddle on the floor. I made a mental note NOT to inform Egbert about that little factoid, as it would only serve to strengthen his arguments about the tunnels being unsafe. 

 

Despite all this, though, Daph and I managed to make our way pretty well. When we arrived at the spot where that dim glow trickled down from the ceiling, you could see it was coming from another skylight built into the sidewalk above. When you looked up, however, all you could see was something large and dark blocking out all but a three inch wide strip of the glass blocks. No wonder it was pitch black down here, right?   

  
  


By whatever dim light the blocked skylight did provide, though, we could see that the tunnel took yet another turn at that point. This corner was an almost perfect ninety degree angle, heading us off to the right again. Unfortunately, by that point I was totally turned around. I quickly pulled my phone out of my pocket and tapped on the compass app icon; according to that, we were now headed roughly south-southwest. That was about all I could tell, though, since I didn’t have enough of a signal to make the map app work. Stupid tunnels.

 

“Should we go on, or turn back?” Daphne asked, shining her flashlight ahead of her into the new section of tunnel. “There’s absolutely no light down this way at all.”

 

“I’m not going back till we reach the end of this tunnel.”

 

“Okay, then. Lead on, Marco Polo,” she teased, stepping aside to let me take point. 

 

This last section of tunnel was in the worst repair of all. We saw at least two more cave-ins and there was a lot more dampness from questionable sources. It kinda stunk, but at least there wasn’t any visible sewage or anything. It was just dank and musty and stale smelling. We carefully made our way over and around whatever obstacles we found, including one especially tricky spot where we had to crawl over a large concrete block that stuck out from the left wall, pretty much blocking the entire passage. Luckily, this branch of the tunnel network was the shortest yet, so it didn’t take us too long to reach the end.

 

And, yes, this time it really was the end. Just a few meters past the big concrete block, the tunnel came to a dead end, our progress halted by a rusty metal grate that blocked the entire passageway. The grating had a small gate in it - just big enough for a person to get through, but only if he or she ducked down - which was secured by a very old looking lock. I tried shaking the gate, testing the strength of the lock, but the whole thing was so badly corroded that it barely budged. If anything, the lock apparatus seemed even more rusted than the rest of it, making it doubtful that I could get it open even assuming I could pick such a relic. Looking through the bars of the grating, I could see steps leading upward, presumably to the surface, except that the exit was blocked with some sort of metal plate. It probably wasn’t worth it to even try to get out that way. 

 

However, there appeared to be a second option. Just to the left of the grating leading out of the tunnel, there was a doorway secured by what looked like an ordinary-looking, grey, metal door. This door was even fairly modern, at least compared to the tunnel. It was secured with a standard deadbolt lock; not a problem for Egbert’s favorite burglar. The only question was where this doorway led to and would we be immediately arrested for breaking and entering if I picked the lock and we let ourselves out that way. 

  
  


I looked sideways at Daphne, silently questioning her whether we should try the door or just turn around and go back. Daph scrunched up her face, her head tilted to the left as she thought. In the end, all she gave me was a shrug and a ‘whatever’ gesture, leaving the decision up to me. Which was a bad call, because I’d always been a bit of a trouble maker, not to mention a notoriously bad decision maker. And right at that moment, I was thinking, ‘why the hell not?’. 

 

So, without further ado, I pulled my pick set out of the back pocket of my jeans and went to work on the door to the unknown.

 

“Ever the professional,” Daphne teased as she watched me work my magic. 

 

It turned out to be a slightly higher than average quality lock, so it was a little tricky to pick. It took me probably close to five minutes to figure it out. Daphne stood by, holding her flashlight so I could see what I was doing, and trying not to bug me too much by repeatedly asking how it was going. Just before I was about to give up and say ‘fuck it’, though, the last of the pins dropped into place and I was able to turn the mechanism, releasing the deadbolt. Then, with a nervous look at my burglary buddy, I pushed down on the door handle and slowly pulled the door open.

 

I stopped as soon as there was a crack big enough to see through. I was surprised that there was already light coming from behind the door - I’d expected to find myself in another practically empty basement - and I worried that there would be someone in there that would catch us and possibly be angry. I really couldn’t see much around the edge of the door, however, so I was forced to keep going, come what may. I carefully opened the door wider, all the while waiting for some shout of protest. When nobody came to investigate, though, I took a deep breath, mentally crossed imaginary fingers, and then poked my head all the way through the opening.

  
  


What I saw wasn’t what I expected. The room behind the metal door looked like any other storage room, only this one was much cleaner and tidier than most. The area was well lit by several long fluorescent ceiling fixtures. The walls were lined with metal shelving, floor to ceiling, and various items of equipment, tools, and plastic storage bins were stacked on the shelves. A few larger items, like a ladder and a metal cart, were lying on the floor, but nothing was noticeably out of place. The shelving on the far wall was jam packed with bankers’ boxes, all prominently labeled by year and chronologically arranged with the oldest years on the top left of the leftmost shelf. Thankfully, there didn’t appear to be anyone in the room, despite the lights having been left on.

 

“Where the fuck are we?” Daphne whispered nervously as we both stepped into the room and looked around ourselves more thoroughly. 

 

“No idea,” I replied as I examined one of those storage boxes more closely. “Someplace with the cleanest basement ever seen by man, it appears.”

 

Daphne followed me, just as curious, lifting the lid of one box so she could snoop inside. “Hmm, looks like old newspapers and pictures and stuff.” She fished out an old hard-bound book, opened it to a random page, and ‘hmmed’ again. “Hmm. It’s just like our high school yearbook, only for the graduating class of like a hundred years ago.” She turned the book around, holding it up so I could see the array of sepia-tinted photos. “These guys all have the same gay hair as your architect, Justin. You think your Peebles guy is in here?”

 

I grabbed the book out of her hands and turned it around so I could read the title on the front. ‘Duquesne Club Membership Roster - 1928’. 

 

“I doubt it. Peebles was probably dead by 1928. But some of these other guys in here might have known him,” I surmised, handing the book back to Daph so she could return it to the box where it had come from. Then I looked in another box, finding similar items of memorabilia, all of which seemed related to my father’s social club. “So, I’m going out on a limb here, and I’m gonna say that I think we somehow emerged in the basement of the Duquesne Club.”

 

“I’d say you’re right,” Daph agreed as she rifled through more documents. “I guess we know where your architect’s tunnel came out . . . I mean, I get connecting up with the Hotel so they could get their orgy thing on, but why hook up his building with some drafty old social club?”

 

“I don’t know. Maybe all the founding fathers of Pittsburgh were closet gays?”

 

“Yeah, that’s likely,” Daph scoffed at me. 

 

“I suppose that it was the one place where Billy’s family wouldn’t give him shit for going,” I hypothesized as I worked through the mystery in my mind. “It kinda makes sense, right? According to his journal, Billy was here at the Club all the time for meetings and shit. So his father wouldn’t have any reason to complain about him coming here. And if he just conveniently left after his meeting by way of the basement exit instead of the front door, who would have been the wiser? He could then go to see his lover, Peebles, or go hang with Beefy’s queers, or whatever, without getting caught. Its kinda ingenious actually. I just wonder how Peebles managed it without being found out.”

 

I’m about to look into another of the boxes of memorabilia, looking for an answer to that particular quandary, when I hear voices coming from behind me and a door - not the one we came in through from the tunnel - opened to reveal a young man dressed in the Club’s typical waiter uniform; black dress pants, a white button down shirt and a dark maroon vest. This guy is about the same age as I am, maybe a little older, but his stockier build makes him look more mature. I vaguely recognize him from my infrequent visits with my father. In fact, he might have been one of the bartenders at the Christmas party. I can tell right away that he recognizes me. 

 

The initial exclamation our waiter was going to throw at some interloper who had invaded the Club was immediately suffocated and, instead, he offers a more deferential warning. “I’m sorry but this area is for employees only, Sir.”

 

“Of course,” I push the box I’d been rifling through back onto the shelf and turn around to face the waiter. “I was just showing my guest around and we got turned around.” It was a bald-faced lie and everyone knew it but since I was the son of a paying Member this guy would never call me on it. “When we saw all these boxes, though, we got curious. Does the Club keep all it’s records? How far back do they go?”

 

“I don’t know. You’d have to talk to the Manager about that, Sir,” Mr. Deferential replied even as he held the door open in a clear invitation for me and Daphne to get the hell out of there. “We need to lock up now, if you don’t mind.”

 

There was no helping it. We couldn’t just tell this waiter guy off and go back through the tunnels - not unless we wanted to give away the fact that we’d broken in to start with. So Daph and I let Mr. Waiter Guy lead us out of the room through the regular door, which emptied into a dark and narrow hallway. Mr. Waiter stayed right on our tails the whole way, as if to usher us upstairs and make sure that we wouldn’t get into more trouble in rooms that we weren’t supposed to be in. We all trooped up the stairs and eventually found ourselves on the main floor of the Club in the back hallway next to the rest rooms. Mr. Waiter watched diligently as I escorted Daphne the rest of the way out to the lobby, leaving the disapproving waiter standing guard over the basement stairs. 

 

That’s when I looked down at the time display on my phone and realized just how long we’d been gone. I imagined that Brian would be going insane waiting for us. Shit! I grabbed Daphne’s arm and we started running back towards Brian’s building. 

 

“Can you fucking believe how close we were to getting caught?” She laughed almost gleefully as we pounded the pavement of Liberty Avenue. Thank fuck I was still wearing a support bandage on my ankle because without it I probably would have fallen face first into the road. 

 

I shook my head as I continued running, I was now almost desperate to get back to Brian and reassure him that I was okay. I can only imagine what was going through his mind right then. But shit, we were so lucky we weren’t caught as we were coming in through the door. That’s all I needed - getting arrested at my father's social club for breaking and entering. Dad would have been livid.

 

“That was too fucking close, Daph.” 

 

I couldn’t help but laugh, though. Maybe it was the adrenaline or something, but as I rattled the door to Eggy’s building, kicking it open in my best Burglar imitation, I started laughing almost manically. Daphne joined in. I don’t think either of us knew what we were actually laughing about, but it was obviously a release that we both needed. 

 

We sped through the lobby, heading for the basement stairs. As the door to the pizza place shut loudly behind us, I suddenly heard Brian thundering up the stairs from the dungeon. Shit, he didn’t look happy. In fact, he looked furious. His face was taut and I could hear him breathing loudly as he stood at the entranceway. 

 

Daph and I had immediately stopped laughing as we saw Brian barrelling towards us, and the atmosphere in the room suddenly felt thick with tension.

 

“Brian, I’m sor . . .”

 

I didn’t get to finish my apology as he rushed towards me, almost tackling me to the ground with the impetus as he threw his arms around me. 

 

“You’re okay. Thank fuck, you’re okay,” he kept repeating this in my ear as he hugged me tighter. “I was so fucking worried, Justin. You were gone so long. What the hell happened? Actually, you know what? I don’t want to know.”

 

“I’m fine. We both are. I’m sorry I worried you,” I heard myself apologizing into his chest. The sound of his heart beating furiously against my ear made me feel like a complete and utter asshole. “I didn’t mean to be gone so long.”

 

“I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought actually. But it wasn’t good.”

 

“But we’re back now and we’re fine,” Daphne piped up.

 

I’d forgotten for a second that Daphne was still standing next to us. But there she was, using her soothing manner to calm Brian down, and it was working. I could hear his breathing normalize and his heart was no longer threatening to explode from his chest. 

 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” and I watched as, without a second thought, Brian reached his hand out to pat Daphne’s slightly rumpled and dusty shoulder. It was quick, and I don’t think he even knew he was doing it, but Daphne’s eyes widened ever so slightly - something only a best friend would notice. And the moment Brian’s eyes were back on me, I could see her giving me a very subtle thumbs up out of the corner of my eye. 

 

Then, just when I thought this moment couldn’t get any better, Brian wrapped his hands around the sides of my face, holding me in place while he stared intently into my eyes. He just stood there, looking at me while one of his thumbs absentmindedly stroked my cheek. I went to say something but he shook his head, silently telling me to keep whatever I was going to say to myself. The next thing I know, he’s bent down and taken my lips in a deep kiss that almost took my breath away, and he didn’t release me until he’d kissed me thoroughly. But the thing that really DID take my breath away - this time with an overwhelming burst of pride - was when my favorite germaphobe used one of his big thumbs to wipe away a small smudge of dirt on my cheek. 

 

And he didn’t even flinch, he just casually wiped the filth off on the leg of his jeans and then turned, his arm around my waist, and led me and Daph back out through the lobby doors and up to his rooms.  

  
Chapter Music Selection -  [ The Adventure by Angels & Airwaves. ](https://youtu.be/JMl8cQjBfqk)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5/30/19 - So much plot here, huh? Sorry there wasn’t enough Brian. Never fear, though, we’re getting there. We’re getting closer to the end of this story so, as the song says, ‘Here we go, Life’s waiting to begin...’ TAG & Sally.


	29. Brave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eggy is feeling braver and that makes his Brat very, very happy indeed! Enjoy! TAG & Sally.

 

Chapter 29 - Brave.

  
  


My Adventure Pal didn’t stay long. We gave Brian the short story about where the tunnel ended up and why we had to come back overland instead of underground. Except for a few terse yet pertinent questions he was quiet while we told our tale. The whole time, though, he had a virtual death grip on my hand, like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go for even a second. Any other day and I would have teased him rotten about it, but I could sense how much he needed the contact, so I let it go and just enjoyed the feel of his hand holding mine. 

 

Daph had a shift at the hospital that night, so before long she had to book or she would have been late. Even after she was gone, however, Eggy was still pensive. I started thinking that maybe my dusty clothing was squicking him out or something, so I proposed a shower. From the way Brian jumped at that suggestion, I figured it was the right call.

 

So I led him into the bathroom and started the water running in the shower. Eggy was strangely passive about the whole thing - not his usual controlling self - which was confusing as shit. I was used to the domineering, OCD, micromanager who liked to be in control of everything within his gleaming tower. I mean, shoot me, but there’s something really hot about the way he sometimes orders me around, even if it’s just complaining about the way I left a dirty spoon on the counter. This more laid back version of my Hermit was a bit confusing.

 

Even when we got into the shower together, the hot water pelting down and washing away any residual filth left over from my sojourn in the bowels of the City, Brian was still wary and too quiet. I wondered if my insisting on exploring the tunnel - against his explicit wishes - might have been too much. Was he angry at me? I hadn’t thought he was the type to brood about it, but maybe . . . In the end I decided there was no help for it and I just needed to bite the bullet.

 

“I’m sorry for freaking you out by going back into those tunnels, Eggy,” I finally said, approaching him carefully with the bar of soap held out in front of me as a sort of peace offering. “If it’s any consolation, at least we found the end of the tunnel and I won’t be obsessing about that part of the mystery any more.” Brian simply shrugged and continued to work the soap into a lather with his hands. “And the good news is that we proved the tunnels are at least safe, right?”

 

“For the moment,” he conceded. “That’s not to say that they’re stable long-term. Hell, you hear about old, forgotten, mine shafts collapsing into sink holes all the time around here. All it takes is a heavy rain and one overloaded semi driving over the top of one of those things and the next thing you know you’ve got a hole

in the road big enough to swallow a VW.” 

 

“Maybe, but . . .”

 

“No buts. I don’t want you crawling around in those tunnels anymore, Justin. I just . . . I just don’t, okay?”

 

“I’m done for now. I promise.” And then I leaned in to give him a soapy kiss to seal that vow.

 

Somehow, though, our agreement hadn’t alleviated the tension completely. Brian was still pensive and our shower ended up being just that - two men getting clean - without any of the usual playfulness. I had a bad feeling about it all. I didn’t like thinking that Eggy was still angry at me about the tunnel thing despite my apology. But what else could I do or say?

 

As soon as we were both clean, Brian abruptly shut off the water and got out, leaving me to drip dry on my own. I started wondering if this was his subtle way of telling me to get lost. I climbed out of the shower on my own and started to towel myself off, mentally prepared to just get dressed and get the hell out of there, but when I reached over to retrieve my shirt from the laundry hamper where Brian had thrown it, he grabbed my wrist and stopped me. 

 

“You’re not getting dressed again, are you?” he asked nervously, biting at his bottom lip and looking up at me almost shyly from behind his impossibly long lashes. 

 

I was so confused. “I thought, maybe, you were still pissed off at me or something and I should just leave. I mean . . .”

 

“No. No, I don’t want you to leave,” he interrupted me and then sighed. “Fuck. I fucking suck at this shit . . .” He started pacing around the small confines of his tiny bathroom, making like a caged beast. 

 

Okay, total disconnect here; guess I was getting my signals totally mixed and he hadn’t really wanted me to leave. But whatever was getting my man all riled up, it had to be something big. I could tell Eggy’s breathing was becoming more rapid and there was a little tic at the corner of his mouth that was spasming, all indicating just how agitated he was getting. Something was really bothering my guy and I needed to figure it out fast. I let the shirt fall back into the hamper and turned to take my tongue-tied hermit in hand. 

 

“Eggy, stop.” I grabbed hold of him on his next pass and took both his hands in my own, pulling him around till he was facing me. “I’m not leaving, okay?”

 

He nodded his head and I could see his body relax a little at those words, but he was still tightly wound. 

 

“Let’s go to bed,” I suggested. It was barely starting to get dark outside and I wasn’t even remotely tired, but I wanted - no, I needed - to have my man as close to me as possible right then. Something wasn’t right with him and I wasn’t going anywhere until I knew what was wrong. 

 

Brian gave me a quick, tight-lipped smile and turned before making his way towards the bedroom. I watched him walking away, bear except for the towel wrapped around his waist, and I felt myself staring at those beautiful muscles in his back. Fuck, he was gorgeous. Once we were in the bedroom I watched as he put on a clean pair of boxers. I went to do the same, but as soon as he saw what I was doing he reached over and stopped me.

 

“Huh?” I could feel my nose scrunch up in confusion, but he just shook his head. 

 

He sat on the bed and scooted back until his back was against the headboard. “Leave them off.”

 

I nodded silently and went to drop my briefs onto the floor, but caught myself in time and laid them on the back of the chair next to the bed. I then turned around and climbed atop the mattress next to him. Why was I so fucking nervous? Something in Brian had changed but I couldn’t figure out what it was; I only knew that he seemed to have come to some decision and afterwards most of that nervous tension I’d been sensing had dissipated. 

 

“Lay down,” he ordered.

 

I did as I was told, keeping my eyes on his the whole time. I could hear him breathing loudly through his nose, something I noticed he did when he was excited. He then turned himself so that he was laying on his side and leaning slightly over me. 

 

“I . . . damn it. I . . .” He cleared his throat and took a deep breath while he struggled to find his words. 

 

I placed my hand on his bicep and smiled up at him, giving him one of my best toothy grins. He smiled a little in return and then I felt him lean across me and open the drawer on the bedside table. I didn’t even think to look at what he was doing, I was too happy having his chest brush across my face and couldn’t help myself as I peppered his skin with small, butterfly-soft kisses. Once he’d retrieved whatever he was looking for, he moved away from me slightly. 

 

“What’s the matter?” I asked  

 

Brian then leaned forward and pressed a small kiss against my lips. “Nothing’s the matter.”

 

“Okay . . .” It was then that I noticed what he was clutching so tightly in his hand - one of the flavored condoms I’d been using when I blew him - and I raised one questioning eyebrow.

 

He must have seen my surprise because he shook his head. “Now, don’t be getting any wild ideas,” he said solemnly “As much as I want to fuck you into the mattress,” he groaned softly, “I’m not ready for that yet.” It broke my heart hearing how angry he sounded with himself when he said that. If only he could see just how far he had already come; sometimes it seemed he was too busy listening to his doubts to see how much progress he’d made. 

 

“I swear, I wasn’t having any such ideas,” I said as seriously as I could. “My brain would never allow me such impure thoughts.”

 

He burst out laughing and the tension in the room went down another half a notch.

 

Once we’d stopped laughing, I could sense his eyes on me and I felt myself shiver. 

 

He then handed me a coffee flavored condom. “Put this on; slip it on your dick.”

 

I did as I was told, my eyes never leaving his. The tension in the room had shot back up, but this time it was comprised of a delicious sexual frisson, not that sick, futile nervousness. Once the condom was on, I waited patiently for my next instruction. I could feel Brian doing something behind me and suddenly his hand was on my chest and he’d pushed me down against the stack of pillows he’d been arranging. As my back hit the bed, I let out a whoosh of air. 

 

“This time I’m going to suck YOU off, Justin,” Eggy announced, so matter-of-factly, that I almost forgot to inhale again.

 

Just hearing him say those words caused me to my dick to stand at attention. I couldn’t believe that, after all this time, my cock would finally be where it had always wanted to be; inside Brian’s hot mouth. Fuck, I could feel myself leaking just thinking about it. I watched as he moved down the bed, spreading my legs and situating himself between them, then gently stroking my hips for a few moments as though he was getting himself accustomed to my skin. After another minute or two, he wriggled down the bed so that he could lay at full length, propped up on his arms. He looked up at me from under his lashes, an almost bashful look on his face, and carefully wrapped his hand around my dick. His grip firmed, he gave a few quick pumps to get my cock primed, then he brought his head down and I could feel him breathing me in as he prepared himself. 

 

I’m embarrassed to say that, at that particular moment, I wanted nothing more than to grab my dick in one hand and his head in the other and shove my coffee flavored cock as deep into his mouth as it would go. Of course, I knew I couldn’t do that. We weren’t anywhere close to being ready for something like that. I knew I couldn’t rush things; I had to wait for Brian to make the next move. And if I was being honest, I probably needed those few seconds to calm myself down as much as Brian needed the time to work out how he was going to proceed, so it was a good thing I was able to restrain myself. All in good time, right?

 

“Ready?” I wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself or asking me, but I was definitely ready for this moment - I had been since the moment I’d first set eyes on him. 

 

Then came the moment I’d been waiting for; Brian leaned down and I watched with squinty eyes as he took my sheathed cock into his mouth. FUCK! My whole body was vibrating and I knew if I didn’t try and calm down a little, this would be over before it had really started. 

 

The feel of his hair tickling against my hips as he began to bob up and down, alongside the feel of his tongue swirling around the tip of my cock for a few seconds before he swallowed me down completely, was like some kind of sensory overload. Maybe my brain was short circuiting? Not that I cared when it felt so good. So good. I mean, really, really, REALLY good.

 

Without warning, my hips began to lift off the bed almost of their own volition. I could hear myself making some sort of wild animal noise that I knew I would be embarrassed about later, not that I could help it. The more my hips moved, the more he worked his tongue into my slit. Then he swallowed me deeper and it felt like my entire cock was being massaged by his constricting throat muscles. My eyes fluttered closed and I kept them tightly shut so I could concentrate on the sensations he was evoking. Which is probably why I was so surprised when, out of nowhere, I felt a stinging slap to my thigh. Okay, if I’m being honest, that not-so-gentle love tap turned me on so fucking much I almost shot right then. I was right on the edge and ready to pop, I just needed a little more . . . 

 

Without thinking about what I was doing, I adjusted my legs, reached down, and began playing with my hole, circling it gently with one finger, feeling it pulse and open with the need to be filled, while Brian continue to suckle at my over-happy dick. Then, suddenly, Brian stopped moving and my cock slipped out of his mouth with a pop. I groaned loudly at the loss of contact and opened my eyes to see what was wrong. The look on his face was so hot and his eyes were dark and staring, but he wasn’t looking at my dick, he was fixated on my wayward finger which had just made entry into my ass. Fuck, I’d probably taken it too far . . . I started to panic and began to pull my finger out, when I suddenly felt his hand gripping my wrist. 

 

“Shit, Brian. I’m sorry . . . I wasn’t think . . .”

 

He shook his head and growled like some sort of hungry bear before pushing my finger back into my spasming hole, guiding me like a puppet-master, moving my finger in and out, hard and fast and deep. His eyes never once left my hole. It was as though he was hypnotized by what he was seeing. And, almost like magic, he seemed to know just when I needed more, pulling my hand out slightly, flicking at my middle finger till I’d moved it next to the first, and then watching as I inserted it alongside my index finger. Brian groaned loudly at the sight but then went back to giving my dick the attention it so desperately craved. 

 

This time, however, he wasn’t just sucking me to death, he was simultaneously finger fucking me like I’d never been fingered before. Yes, it was my own finger inside of me, but he was the one controlling every movement and, if I closed my eyes, I could imagine it was him inside of me, pushing and stretching my hole. I felt my orgasm building up quickly, but like the greedy fuck I am, I still needed more. It didn’t matter that my cock was hitting the back of his throat, or that he was pushing two fingers in and out of me like his life depended on it, I needed more. And somehow he knew this too, helping by manipulating my hand so I could insert a third finger. His hand was still wrapped tightly around my wrist, and never too near my probing fingers, but I didn’t care. I loved that it was him who was controlling the movements and the speed - it gave me a little insight into what he’d be like when the time came for us to fuck for real. Judging by the way he was working my fingers, my ass was going to be sore for days, but I couldn't care less by that point. I was so far gone. So aroused. So fucking turned on by this crazy, unpredictable, amazing man, that I wanted to scream and cry and then maybe just melt into a puddle at his feet. 

 

But I didn’t have time for any of that right then because, just thinking about us finally fucking - along with the push and pull of his hand on my fingers and his hot, wet mouth making love to my cock - sent me over the edge in probably the most intense orgasm I had ever had. My ass clenched around my fingers so tightly it almost hurt, and my dick emptied itself into the condom at an impressive rate. And while all this was happening Brian continued to play with my dick inside of his mouth until I was completely empty. 

 

“Fuck!” I realized that wasn’t the most eloquent thing to say at a time like that, but I couldn’t find any other appropriate words.

 

“You never know . . .” Brian replied with a mischievous wink as he climbed up the mattress and laid down next to me. “Maybe sooner than you’d think.” I offered up a happy, sated smile for my emboldened lover and rolled over so I could snuggle closer into his side. “It looks like those happy pills Daphne’s friend made me take are working, otherwise I never would have even dreamed of doing . . . that . . .” 

 

He reached over, pulled a wet wipe out of one of the ubiquitous containers that were everywhere in his place, and handed it over to me so I could cleanse my contaminated fingers. Yeah, good sex was never tidy, but it was nice to see that Brian wasn’t freaking out over the fact, and that he was definitely loosening up a bit finally. When my hands were clean, I stripped off the condom and used another wipe to clean off my cock. And, while I was doing that, I saw Brian doing the same.

 

“Hey, when did you glove up?” I asked, noting the full condom he tossed in the nearby trash can.

 

“While you were busy rolling around and moaning,” he informed me, obviously proud of the fact that he’d been the one making me moan. “Can’t believe I shot just from giving someone ELSE a fucking blow job, but what the fuck, right?”

 

“It’s those flavored condoms,” I teased. “They’ll get you every time.”

 

That caused the big guy to laugh. I really loved that fucking laugh, too. It was big and bold and uninhibited and far too rare. My Eggy should definitely laugh way more often. And right then and there, I made that my goal for the foreseeable future. 

 

“So . . . Not that I’m complaining or anything, but what brought all this on?” I asked when we were both quiet again. 

 

“No idea. I just . . . I felt like it.” He smiled that sweet, little-boy, smile that always made my heart feel all melty. “I’ve been wanting to try that ever since you brought over those damn condoms - which, by the way, taste horrible. Coffee-flavored my ass. Actually, I’m sure my ass tastes better than that thing - but anyway . . .” Egbert fell silent but I could tell he wasn’t done talking so for once I didn’t immediately pipe up and fill the void with chatter like I normally would have. Eventually he continued, “you and Daphne were gone so long. I was really freaking out, you know? I tried yelling down the tunnel, but I guess you were too far away to hear me. At the end, I was even contemplating heading down the fucking tunnel to come find you - if you can imagine that.” I gave him an extra big squeeze with the hand that I had draped around his waist, silently conveying how proud I was of him for even thinking about such a bold move. “I don’t know if it’s those happy pills, or just the fact that you make me want to do all sorts of shit I haven’t dared to even think about in almost a decade, but for about five minutes that was my plan. I was going to march right down that fucking tunnel and come to your rescue.”

 

“Awww! Sorry to disappoint you. Next time I’ll make sure to get trapped and await my big, brave savior.”

 

Eggy slapped my hip playfully. “Bite your fucking tongue, Sunshine.” We both chuckled quietly together before Brian got all serious again and added, “how about you just don’t go down there again, huh? I’m not really as brave as all that; I’d probably panic once I got ten meters into the tunnel and then we’d have to have someone else come save both of us.”

 

“I think you’re braver than you think,” I asserted with a happy sigh as we both settled even deeper into the pillows. “But I don’t think any future rescues will be necessary. I don’t plan to go back into the tunnels at this point. Now that I know where they go, my curiosity is satisfied . . . well, mostly. I’d still love to know how Peebles managed to build his tunnel all the way to the Duquesne Club without somebody saying something. And also, what happened between Peebles and Billy.”

 

“You’re a fucking romantic twat, you know that right?”

 

“Of course,” I admit. “But that’s why you can’t resist me. Because you desperately need some romance in your life, Eggy.”

 

And the fact that my brave little recluse didn’t even try to deny this assertion, spoke louder than all the words in the world.

  
**********

  
Chapter Music Selection -  [ Brave by Sara Bareilles ](https://youtu.be/QUQsqBqxoR4) . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6/12/19 - Looks like we’re finally getting closer to wrapping up this story. All the good stuff is gonna start happening pretty fast here. Yay! And let’s hear it for Sally’s pretty hot blow job scene, huh? Whew! Smokin! Now, off to plot and plan. TAG & Sally.


	30. Bizarre Love Triangle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More sexiness as our boys' relationship gets more intense, and more intrigue as they delve into the love triangle mystery of the past. Enjoy! TAG & Sally.

 

Chapter 30 - Bizarre Love Triangle.

  
  


“Why is it that every time I see you these days, you’ve got your head stuck in a book?” 

 

I looked up to see who was giving me shit, only to find my friend, Zeboria, grinning down at me. Now, don’t get me wrong, I really liked Z - he was an incredibly gifted artist and a generally nice guy - but that’s not to say I enjoyed being interrupted. I hadn’t had a spare moment to myself in what felt like ages, so when I finally had a chance to spend some time reading further in Billy Carnegie’s journal, I didn’t appreciate this new distraction. And when I saw the greasy musician who was tagging along at Z’s heels, I was even less thrilled. It took everything in me not to sigh loudly at seeing that mousy little face staring back at me. 

 

“Hey, Z. Ethan . . .” I sighed and set aside the journal, realizing I had to be pleasant for at least a couple of minutes if I didn’t want to alienate my buddy. “What are you up to this afternoon? I thought you were going to spend the rest of the day in the studio working on your assignment for Professor Reading’s Expressionism project?”

 

Zeboria dumped his backpack and art portfolio off on the floor next to my chair and pulled another of the comfortable big black leather armchairs around for himself. The lounge area of the Student Union was reasonably crowded that afternoon, with kids crashed out on every available couch and chair and a few even slouching on the floor in out of the way corners, leaving Ethan without any option other than to perch on the arm of Z’s chair. 

 

Not that Ethan seemed to object to the seating options; he wrapped one arm around Z’s neck, as if to steady himself, and proceeded to make a show of the way his fingers twirled and tugged on the larger man’s short braids. I even caught him looking at me out of the corner of his eye, and the minute he knew I was looking, he very pointedly leaned over to deposit a quick kiss on Z’s cheek. But if Ethan thought he’d make me jealous, he was way off base. The only thing I felt as I watched that over-the-top display was pity for poor Zeboria. Z had no idea who he’d gotten himself mixed up with. But, whatever. I suppose there’s somebody for everyone, right? 

 

“. . . I just can’t get the composition right. I’ve redone that one section at least five times but it still seems off somehow. I’m about ready to just scrape the canvas and start over from scratch. Either that or put my fist through it.” I eventually tuned into my friend’s recitation of his woes related to the project he’d been struggling with all week. “Anyway, when Ethan showed up, I figured it was a good excuse to take a break.”

 

“I came over to tell Z my fabulous news,” Ethan interjected boastfully. “I’ve got a new gig coming up in a few weeks; I’m going to be performing at a private party for this really exclusive social club. One of the members saw my Christmas recital and recommended me. These guys want me so bad, they’re paying me double what I normally get. It’s quite an honor, not to mention a really sweet deal.”

 

“Sounds great, Ethan.” I unenthusiastically offered him a tight-lipped smile and then immediately turned my attention back to Z. “So, I was thinking, what if you went with a more muted palette of colors . . .”

 

“It’s the Duquesne Club,” Ethan interrupted, apparently not done being the center of attention. “I’m going to be one of the top-billed entertainers at their Annual Founders Day Gala. It’s, like, one of the biggest honors possible in a small town like Pittsburgh, you know? The membership there is made up of the wealthiest and classiest elites in all of Pittsburgh. Maybe even in all of Pennsylvania. And it’s famous for hosting some of the world’s most promising up-and-coming talents - I heard that Itzhak Perlman played there when he was just starting out, and Yo Yo Ma too - so I’ll be in great company. I mean, you never know, maybe this’ll be the perfect stepping stone to a paying career.”

 

I couldn’t help it - that stupid, haughty smirk on Ethan’s face just got to me somehow - so I just had to show up the arrogant little social climber. “Yeah, I’m familiar with the Duquesne Club. My family has been members since my Great Grandfather’s time. And, by the way, the Founders Day Gala is a total snooze fest. Trust me. The median age of the folks attending that event is, like, a hundred and fifty. You’ll be lucky if they all have fresh enough batteries in their hearing aides that they can actually hear you playing. But, yeah, congrats anyway, I guess,” I commented, secretly enjoying the way Ethan visibly deflated as I popped his superiority bubble. Then I turned my attention back to Z’s artistic problem. “So, like I was saying, I’d go with secondary colors and mute them down more. Make it feel hazy, like the way a horizon looks on a hot summer day, all washed out . . .”

 

Zeboria and I spent the next ten minutes or so talking art while Ethan stewed and fidgeted, clearly annoyed that he was being left out of the conversation. It was kinda fun, annoying him like that, so I dragged out the discussion a little. I know, I’m a total shit, but that’s part of my charm, right? Zeboria seemed oblivious about the tension between me and Ethan, which I assumed meant that Ethan hadn’t told his new squeeze about his previous obsession. But, hey, as long as it kept Ethan away from me, Z was welcome to him. 

 

Eventually Ethan got bored listening to the two artists talking about stuff that he didn’t know anything about and he started wiggling on his perch. I saw the moment when his hand moved from contentedly playing with Zeboria’s hair to tapping on the man’s shoulder. But when Z continued to ignore even that - cuz you know that it’s virtually impossible to get an artist’s attention when one of us is talking about painting, right? - Ethan actually stood up and moved so he was standing directly between the two of us, effectively putting a stop to the discussion. 

 

“Hey, Z, I thought we were going to go get a bite to eat, Hon,” Ethan suggested. 

 

“Oh, right . . .” Zeboria hooked his arm through the loop of one backpack strap before standing up and also grabbing his portfolio. “Thanks for the tips on my project, Justin. I think I’ll definitely try out a more muted palette. Good call, man. Damn, I want to get back to it right now.” But then he looked over at an impatient Ethan and shrugged.

 

“See you around, Z.” I waved goodbye as the two of them sauntered off towards the cafeteria, happy to have my peace and quiet back, then I dove back into the journal I’d been reading. 

 

_ ‘September 30, 1885, All Hail the Pittsburgh Gas and Light Company!’,  _ the next journal entry I read began, causing me to chuckle at the author’s trademark hyperbole.  _ ‘The PG&L utility tunnels have finally made it all the way down Sixth Avenue, even unto the steps of the Duquesne Club. And, even more good news, Andrew has been chosen to supervise the completion of some repairs to the Club’s building, such repairs encompassing the refurbishment of the kitchens and the shoring up of portions of the ramshackle old basement to accommodate the installation of a new, improved, coal boiler system. Andrew assures me that it will be a simple matter, as part of these improvements, to provide the building with an accessible entrance to the PG&L tunnels, which will allow us two to once again resume a more frequent acquaintance . . .’  _

 

Well, that explained the tunnel extension going to the Club. Peebles really was quite resourceful using all those utility tunnels for his private needs. No wonder all the intervening journal entries had been so boring; it sounded like the lovebirds had been kept apart all summer by Billy’s overbearing family and were only able to reconnect at the end of September once that tunnel was ready to rock. And now that there was no physical restraint on their relationship, I was expecting the Carnegie Chronicles to heat up again. However, as I read on, I was a bit surprised to find only lukewarm comments about Peebles over the next few weeks. That was curious.

 

I would have read further, but when I finally looked up and noted the time, I realized I was late for History of The Renaissance. I quickly stashed the journal, legged it across the snow-covered breezeway to get to the adjoining Fine Arts Building, and then took the stairs three at a time up to the second floor. Luckily, my professor was still distributing copies of that day’s handouts so I hadn’t missed any of the lecture. I grabbed a copy of the lecture notes, and a seat, and tried not to pant and gasp too loudly as my heartbeat slowly came back to normal. But even then my head was filled with images of Victorian Era tunnels, not Renaissance palaces, so it was questionable whether the lecture was any use to me at all. 

 

After my history lecture let out, I went directly to the computer lab to put in some work on my Graphic Design project. We were supposed to create business cards for a hypothetical business - surprise, surprise that I’d decided to create a leasing company for the Triangle Building using one of the millions of photos I’d taken of Brian’s Tower to create a stylized depiction of the building as the background for the business card I was designing. I thought it looked great, even if I did say so myself. Maybe, once Eggy’s meds fully kicked in, he might be interested in using these cards I was making to lease out parts of his building again? I mean, you never knew, right? 

 

Once I had the card design pretty much done, I packed up my shit and decided to head over to the building itself, just to get in an Egbert fix, cuz you know if I go too long without a hit of my hermit, I get a little crazy. And I think Eggy was just as glad to see me as I was to be there, because as soon as I let myself into his office he took the latte I’d brought for him out of my hand without even pausing to contemplate the germs it might be swathed in, set the cup aside, and immediately took possession of my lips in a toe-curling kiss. 

 

“I take it you’re happy to see me?” I purred when I was finally allowed to breathe again. 

 

“Nah, I’m just taking a CPR course online and needed someone to practice on,” my Eggy snarked in response, albeit without the necessary grouchy undertone that would make it believable. 

 

“Well, I’m happy to serve in that important role. Feel free to ‘resuscitate’ me as much as needed.”

 

“Oh, I want to do a LOT more than resuscitate you. Trust me,” Brian replied with a lascivious twinkle in his eye that got me wondering about just how fast those happy pills of Daphne’s worked. “What I’d like to do is bend you like a pretzel and then . . .”

 

“Then what?” I asked, breathlessly, more than ready to be pretzeled, provided it would lead in the direction I was hoping.

 

Brian laughed, looking sort of amazed at himself and what he’d been saying. “I don’t actually know what I’d do with you after that, to be honest. I just . . . Well . . . You weren’t here to distract me last night, so I was trolling the internet, and I saw this thing, and the guy was a skinny blond, which sorta made me think of you, only his ass wasn’t nearly as nice, but I still thought . . . I mean, you are pretty bendy, so . . .” he spluttered to a stop.

 

“Brian Kinney. You naughty boy, you! You were watching porn on the internet last night, weren’t you!” I teased him.

 

He snorted loudly. “I’m a horny gay man; what do you think I do when you aren’t here to distract me? Watch reruns of ‘Leave It To Beaver’? Of course I watch porn. As often as I fucking can,” my horny hermit insisted, sending me into a proxysm of laughter.

 

“Sorry, Brian. It’s just that, I never thought of you like that. Watching porn. I guess . . . I guess I just assumed you’d find that kind of thing sort of icky . . .”

 

“No. Not at all,” he immediately assured me. “I mean, I can’t actually DO any of that stuff . . . not now at least . . . but it doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy watching it. Dreaming about it. Remembering it . . .”

 

“Remembering?” That comment threw me for a loop. “Does that mean that you’ve actually done some of the stuff you’re seeing on those porn channels?” Brian looked at me with a ‘seriously?’ face. “Sorry, I guess I just assumed . . .”

 

“Assumed what? That I’d always been this ridiculously pathetic?” Brian scoffed. “I told you before that I wasn’t always like this. I’m not some pansy little virgin, Justin. Back when I was in college - and even before that - I was out there all the time. I’d even started to build up a bit of a reputation as kind of a Stud . . .”

 

“Wow, I . . .”

 

“Close your mouth, Justin. It’s not that hard to believe, is it?”

 

I shook my head but ended with a semi-doubtful shrug.

“If it wasn’t for my head short-circuiting the way it did when Donal got sick . . . I would probably still be out there fucking like my life depended on it.”

 

So, yeah, I hadn’t really thought about that possibility at all. It’s not that I hadn’t imagined Brian having sex before . . . In fact, it’s something I thought about A LOT . . . but, that’s all it was - a thought. Hearing him talk like this, knowing that at some point THAT was his reality . . . Wow, just, wow . . . Damn, thinking about Brian, out there fucking random guys, was getting me all hot and bothered. So many thoughts were running through my mind right then, and before I could even stop myself I started asking questions, the filter on my brain having somehow forgotten to kick in. 

 

“What sort of . . .” My voice cracked like an over-excited pubescent boy and I had to stop and clear my throat before continuing. “What sort of things did you get up to? You know, back then?”

 

Brian leaned heavily against his desk and folded his arms. I could feel him watching me and when I looked up he had this look of self-satisfied amusement on his face. Like he was enjoying the memories that were flowing through his mind. 

 

“What didn’t I do?, would probably be an easier question to answer.” Brian chuckled to himself and that little secret smile on his lips was just way too enticing.

 

“Tell me. I want to know.” My voice sounded so raspy, but fuck me, my mouth had gone suddently dry and was I instantly as hard as a fucking brick. 

 

“I used to love picking guys up off the dance floor and dragging them to the backroom with me . . .”

 

Holy shit . . . Brian in a backroom . . . My mind was already off, spinning through a hundred different fantasies.

 

“And then, depending on what mood I was in, I’d either push them down onto their knees and have them suck me off, fucking their mouths until I knew they couldn’t take any more, or I’d shove them up against the wall and fuck their brains out until they couldn’t remember their own name.”

 

I couldn’t hide the fact that I was now rubbing myself through my jeans. 

 

“So you always topped then?” Jesus, I swear I moaned as I asked him. 

 

Brian chuckled loudly as he watched my hand moving roughly over the large tent in my jeans. 

 

“Always.”

 

“Fuck!” I’d probably describe myself as pretty versatile, although I secretly preferred bottoming, so Brian coming right out and saying he was a top had to be a fucking sign; it just had to be.

 

“Does that surprise you?” Brian asked, as he walked towards me, getting right up in my personal space and then reaching down to replace the hand fumbling at my crotch with his own. 

 

And if I thought I was being rough with my dick, pawing at the bulge extending the thick denim of my jeans, it was nothing compared to the way Brian started to pull and tug at me through the intervening fabric. You wouldn’t think somebody could get that heated from just frotting and fondling through their clothing, but yeah. I stood there, completely in his power, as he took over. His teeth were digging into his bottom lip and his breath was blowing in my face as he exhaled heavily with each jerk of his wrist. I could feel myself getting lightheaded the closer I got to coming, almost like I was going to pass out. I remember thinking, ‘I swear, if I fucking die before this man has shoved his cock up my ass, I’m going to be so pissed’. 

 

Then Brian ordered, “come for me, Justin.”

 

As soon as he said that, I felt my body just completely let go and I came in my pants with a loud grunt. Spurt after spurt of warm jizz filled my briefs and I just kept on coming. It was fucking glorious and embarrassing all at the same time.

 

“Sunshine? You okay?” I could see Brian talking to me, but all I could hear was this loud buzzing in my ears.

 

“Huh?”

 

Brian smacked my ass and threw his head back laughing. “Fuck, I still got it. Do you remember your name?”

 

I shook my head playfully, loving the cocky look that was now plastered all over my hermit’s face. The things this man could do to me . . . And that was before we’d actually had full-on sex . . . But now that I had it in my head that he was this brutal, domineering top, I just couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wanted him. And judging by the persistent distension of the fly of Brian’s jeans, he was probably thinking about the same thing. I sighed, a little too melodramatically probably, but I couldn’t help it - he was just so deliciously tempting and yet so out of reach. I felt a bit guilty about always pushing for more from him. I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t being understanding of his OCD or that he didn’t satisfy me - because even without the Full Monty, I was happier with my Eggy than I remembered being with any of my previous boyfriends, by a longshot - and yet I still wanted more. I mean, let’s face it, that cock of his was meant to be used, and keeping it hidden away in his pants was, like, a fucking crime. He really should be out there fucking beautiful men every night in the backrooms of the world. Or, at the very least, fucking ME in the bedroom of his tower. He would be sooooo good at it, you know? Seriously, if he could almost make me forget my own name after just a handjob, what the hell would having his nine inch cock shoved up my ass do to me? I could only imagine.

 

“Come on, you,” Brian was tugging me after him in the direction of his rooms before I’d even had time to drag my thoughts away from my fantasies and back to reality. “You’re a messy, dirty little boy. You need a shower. And while we’re in there, maybe you can use one of those horrible tasting condoms you bought to take care of this little problem I have . . .”

 

After that I jogged ahead, leaving him in my wake as I sprinted to the shower, so I could get the water started. The mere thought of having that hefty slab of man meat in my mouth again, made it water. And, if I couldn’t have what I really wanted, at least I could have that, right? 

  
  


Later that evening, lying in Eggy’s big, comfortable bed with my head nestled in the crook of his shoulder and my body feeling happily replete after several more rounds of creative sexiness, I found myself once more marvelling at the fact that I’d finally found someone like Brian. All those years of dating, the weekends spent trolling through bars and clubs, the many, many men I’d flirted with at the Diner, not to mention the hours spent swiping through Grindr, and in the end I found the perfect man when I’d least expected it, hiding away in an empty old building. It just goes to show that you never know when you’ll find ‘The One’. Or at least the one I thought was ‘The One’, even if we were still so new and still figuring out how to make it all work. 

 

Of course, that got me thinking again about Billy and Peebles and how they’d found each other, in part, because of this same building. Maybe there was something more to the mystery of the place than just how it came to have hidden rooms and secret tunnels - maybe there was some unknown quality built into the solid brick of its walls that encouraged gay romance? Like a haunting which only brought happiness to lonely gay boys? Okay, and maybe I’m just a silly, romantic fool.

 

“What are you giggling about now?” Brian asked, giving my shoulder a squeeze with the arm wrapped beneath me. 

 

“Just hypothesizing about how your building is a magical love nest for gay boys,” I answered him with another laugh.

 

“You think so, huh?” Brian smiled sideways at me, his eyes crinkling up so adorably I felt melty inside. “Brat.”

 

“How else do you explain all the gay romance that’s happened under this roof in the past?” I replied, reaching for Billy’s journal, which I’d left sitting on the nightstand next to the bed. “See, I found the passage about how Peebles managed to build a tunnel to the Duquesne Club so his lover could still secretly join him, here in Peeble’s love hideaway.”

 

I pointed out the passage I’d read just that morning and we speculated over the costs Peebles must have had to go to in order to accommodate his Billy. It was clear that Peebles was pretty much head over heels for young William. Lying there in the arms of my lover, I could relate.

 

However, as we continued to read through the subsequent journal entries, I began to doubt my theory about the building being the birthplace of some ancient, perfect, gay love. The tone of Billy’s entries had changed somehow. He still wrote of Peebles frequently, but with less glowing accolades. It seemed their relationship was becoming more routine. Their romance more rote. Less exciting. Less mysterious. And, I guess that’s what happens to most relationships over time, but . . . well, it left me feeling somehow deflated. Bereft. Like *I* was the one growing more and more dissatisfied, which wasn’t right at all, not when I was lying in the arms of the most wonderful man I’d ever met. It was disconcerting and I read on with a bit of apprehension about where my ideal romance mystery was leading.

 

“Huh, looks like Billy finally got a bit of a break from his family. Seems like they up and left town for the winter,” Brian commented, pointing out a new entry. “Peebles’ tunnels must have fooled Old Thomas, if he relented and left his rebellious son in charge of business back here in the Pitts.”

 

Brian began to read the passage aloud, “‘ _ November 4, 1885 - Life here in Our Fair City has once again settled down now that Father and Mother have relocated for the season to the more civilized environs of New York City. I am left here in Pittsburgh, put in charge of father’s business interests, albeit with my brother, Frank, and father’s business manager, Mr. Cruthers, looking over my shoulder at every turn. My days, therefore, are extraordinarily full, yet tedious. However, there is compensation, as my private time is less scrutinized now that Father is temporarily out of the picture. To celebrate, Andrew convinced his partner, Jay, to accompany us on our visit to Beefy’s this evening. I must admit that I was glad of this addition as it means I shall no longer be the Novice of the group. It was also pleasant to have another younger person amongst us. I have often felt set apart as the youngest, by far, of the denizens who frequent Beefy’s Den of Iniquity. And, although I feel quite experienced now as compared to how naive I was when I began this journal, I am still the youngest of the Hotel Liberty’s patrons. So it is quite refreshing to indoctrinate another newcomer who is closer in age and experience level to myself. Jay seemed to enjoy himself exceedingly, once he had accustomed himself to the amusements offered. I look forward to including him more often in the future . . .’” _

 

“Sounds to me like the boy had his first three-way,” Brian surmised. “And liked it.”

 

“Yeah . . . Oh, Fuck!” I exclaimed, sitting up abruptly when the full import of this entry finally hit me. “Shit! You know what this means, Brian?” Eggy continued to just lie there, completely oblivious and unimpressed, while I was reeling. “Jay Frick - Peebles’ ‘straight’ business partner - joined Andrew and Billy at Beefy’s!” I shouted, still getting no real reaction from my bed mate. “Don’t you get it? Jay Frick was secretly gay and he was fooling around with Andrew and Billy . . . You know, Jay, the guy whose wife KILLED HERSELF after her husband VIOLATED THEIR MARRIAGE BED!”

 

“Ohhhhhhh!” It was like a lightbulb turned on in my hermit’s brain. 

 

“Oh is right! No wonder Alma was so freaked out! She must have discovered her husband was gay and he was not only sleeping around on her, but doing it with other GUYS!”

 

“Hence the whole, ‘Ruination of your Soul’ thing,” Brian added while I nodded at him like a bobble-head doll. “Yeah, that makes a lot more sense now. Discovering your hubby was a fag was probably a real shocker to an uptight Victorian Society Matron. Although, I still think offing yourself over it is a little dramatic, don’t you?”

 

So maybe there really was something to my speculation about the building exuding a gay vibe. I mean, if it could turn a married, straight guy like J.H. Frick   to the dark side, who knew, right? And, not that I’m opposed to three-ways in principle and all, but you had to feel a little sorry for poor Alma. An affair is one thing, but a homosexual affair, with more than one other partner, would be a lot to forgive. In that case, though, it would seem that the building wasn’t just a gay love nest, but the center of a gay love triangle. 

 

“I’ve got a great marketing idea once you’re ready to start leasing your building out again, Brian,” I voiced my conclusion, thinking back on those business cards I’d designed for my Graphic Arts project and already making mental revisions. “But you’ll need to change the name of your building first. Cuz this place isn’t just a ‘Triangle Building’, it’s a ‘Love Triangle Building’.” 

  
********

Chapter Music Selection -  [ Bizarre Love Triangle by New Order.  ](https://youtu.be/7uEBuqkkQRk)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re trying to get this story wrapped up so both Sally and I can get back to our other WIPs . . . We’re getting closer and closer. Hope you all like where it’s headed. TAG & Sally.


	31. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE this chapter sooooo much. Hope you will too! Enjoy! TAG

 

Chapter 31 - Trust.

  
  


“There you are!” 

 

I jumped halfway out of my chair at the unexpected voice booming out within the relatively small confines of Egbert’s small kitchen. Bill The Cat, just as startled as I was, immediately jumped down from the table where he’d been nibbling on a scrap of turkey I’d been feeding him as we shared a midnight snack. Obviously, Bill knew he was in trouble, since he scurried off out of sight as fast as his furry butt could move. I looked up guiltily at my host, cringing at the look of horror on his poor fuzzy face as he contemplated the outrage of a dirty cat ass on his pristine table. Brian huffed an angry protest, grabbed the bottle of Lysol Spray and a roll of paper towels, and set about disinfecting pretty much everything in sight. For about half a second I thought he might spray me too out of an abundance of caution, but thankfully he resisted the impulse. 

 

I didn’t say anything, just sat there as unobtrusively as I could manage, until the cleaning frenzy tapered off of its own accord. Then I asked, “so, want me to make you a sandwich too?”

 

“It’s . . .” Brian scowled at the clock on the microwave. “It’s three o’clock in the morning, Justin. No, I don’t want a damn sandwich.” I couldn’t help it, I chuckled a little at his righteous outrage and, after about ninety seconds, his disapproving glare melted. “What the fuck are you doing up this late anyway. Other than contaminating my kitchen and corrupting my cat, that is?”

 

“I couldn’t sleep,” I shrugged, holding up the well-thumbed diary I had been pouring over while I noshed. “I couldn’t stop thinking about the mess with Billy and his dueling lovers . . . And I was hungry.”

 

“You’re always hungry. I swear you have a fucking bottomless stomach,” Brian shook his head at me but since he was smiling I knew he wasn’t really angry. “You realize I’ve had to quadruple my usual food order since you started hanging out here, don’t you?”

 

“I can’t help it. I’m still a growing boy.”

 

“Yeah, and it all goes toward padding your already ample ass.”

 

“Which - judging by the way you were pawing at it earlier - you love. So it’s all good, right?” I insisted with my brattiest smile.

 

Brian didn’t bother to deny it, merely pouring himself a glass of Beam and then pulling up another chair beside me so he could look over my shoulder. “And . . . what’s our little nympho, Billy, up to now?”

 

“Well, from what I can tell, he’s started on a course of action you’d approve of - he’s developing a taste for gay porn!” I explained, and then began to read the entry I’d just come across out loud. 

 

_ “‘Happy Christmas! We here in the The ‘Burgh find ourselves comfortable and well this Holiday Season, despite a vicious cold snap and much snow, which has melted just enough to turn the streets into a muddy soup. Because of the inclemency, I only ventured out briefly yesterday to see to the one imperative business matter that Father insisted must be completed before the New Year. In order to make that expedition less onerous, however, I included a visit to Andrew’s office on the way home and was gratified to receive warm Christmas wishes from my favorite architect. Andrew also gave me a most handsome first edition of Jack Saul’s ‘The Sins of The Cities of The Plain’ - a book that I have heard much discussed and am eager to read for myself despite its controversial reputation. I feel this work may be very educational, a sentiment which Andrew echoed . . .’”  _

 

I set the journal aside and picked up my phone next, angling the screen so Brian could see what I had been looking at. “I googled the book he talks about. It’s, like, the very first porn novel ever published.”

 

“Nice. I approve,” Brian concluded as he quickly read through the wikipedia summary. 

 

“I thought you would,” I smiled at him and then returned to my reading, not liking where I saw the next few entries heading. “Hmm. Sounds like there’s trouble in paradise. Listen to this: ‘ _ January 2, 1886 - And another New Year has now come and gone whilst I am still dabbling along in the same fashion. Alas, my celebration of Father Time’s annual retirement was rather uneventful this year as my Andrew is currently away in Philadelphia - he is meeting with a potential employer about the construction of a new office building - and could not be present for the festivities. However, there is some good news, as Andrew has won the bid for another job here in Pittsburgh and will therefore remain in residence at least through the completion of that project. Although, as that erection will not commence until at least Spring of next year, while the Deacons of the First Lutheran Church finish securing the financing for their new edifice, he is in need of other employment in the interim, hence the trip to Philadelphia. In the meantime, I have invited Jay Frick to accompany me to the theater this weekend so at least I will have some amusement in my life whilst Andrew is away.’” _

 

“When the cat’s away, the mice will play . . . with the next well-hung cat they can find, apparently,” Brian summed up the state of affairs according to young William’s journal. “Billy, Billy, Billy . . . So much for all of Andrew’s efforts to hide Billy’s deviancy with a thousand miles of tunnels. As soon as his rich sugar Daddy goes out of town, the twink steps out on him. Typical.”

 

I couldn’t exactly argue with Eggy, as I skimmed through the next few months of journal entries, which included a few doozies . . .

 

_ ‘January 14, 1886 - Have decided to use Father’s opera tickets this evening. Jay Frick will be joining me, without his wife, as poor Alma is indisposed with a touch of the catarrh. I expect that we boys will somehow manage to amuse ourselves nonetheless.’ _

 

_ ‘February 7, 1886 - Ran into Jay Frick again this evening at the soiree hosted by Mrs. Charles Boyd. The esteemed Mrs. Boyd was staging one of her locally famed ‘Tableau Vivant’ - this one of ‘The Soldier’s Widow’. While I was gratified to have been included amongst the cream of Pittsburgh’s elite for this special evening, I was even more elated when Mr. Frick and I were able to steal away from the entertainments, leaving his wife in Mrs. Boyd’s capable hands, so that ‘the boys’ could go partake of more manly pastimes. We ended up passing a very pleasant few hours taking brandy and cigars in the basement sanctuary of the Triangle Building. A most congenial experience.’ _

 

_ ‘March 22, 1886 - I must say that the amusements offered in Pittsburgh, while I’m sure they are most edifying, can become quite dull after a long, cold winter season. I have been to countless musical evenings, theater performances of questionable quality, and more screeching operas than I care to enumerate. I almost wish Father and Mother would return so that they can once more take up the mantle of the Carnegie Family’s social standing. It’s likely that I am grumbling more than is strictly necessary, missing Andrew’s company as I am. The only bright spot in this dreary scene has been my growing acquaintance with the young Mr. Frick - a highly diverting and eminently charming companion - who has been quite accommodating in making himself available to join me in some of the more mundane of my social obligations. We are becoming fast friends.’ _

 

_ ‘April 10, 1886 - I can take the smoke and stench of Pittsburgh no longer! While Spring may be a glorious season in the minds of many, to those of us in this infernal city it means only more rain, more soggy shoes, more mud in the streets, and more unbreathable air as the fog and cold keep the smoke of our local industries from clearing properly. I have had one cold after another these many weeks because of the unhealthy atmosphere. Thankfully, my dear friend Jay has offered to take me with him to his country house for the week. Jay’s wife, Alma, will be unable to accompany us, as her sister is nearing the end of her confinement and will require her sibling’s company, so it will be just us men. I don’t care who will be going, so long as I am allowed to get out of The ‘Burgh for a time.’ _

 

“Sounds like Billy and Jay were spending way too much time together,” Brian voiced exactly what I was thinking. 

 

And then we read the entries that clinched our suspicions:  _ ‘April 12, 1886 - I have done something that I fear is irredeemable but I am so far unable to regret my actions . . . What a terrible quandary! Why, oh why, did I think accepting an invitation to go to the country with Jay would be a wise idea? I should have known, based on our past, overly-cordial relations, that it would not be advisable for we two to spend such inordinate periods of time alone together. It is no excuse that I have been missing Andrew while he was away in Philadelphia these many long months. Nor is it any justification that Jay’s wife, Alma has been so ill most of the past winter. And yet, all of these circumstances have combined so that, after one too many snifters of brandy, things have now progressed to a point that I fear we are lost . . .’ _

 

_ ‘April 20, 1886 - I am now returned from my Idyll in the Country and I am perplexed as to how that leaves things. I dare not write down all the developments that occurred over the past fortnight, for fear that this journal might one day be discovered and my secrets exposed, but leave it at the fact that I have betrayed both myself and my dear Andrew. What have I done?’ _

 

_ ‘May 1, 1886 - Despite my best intentions to amend my ways and my heartfelt determination to avoid all temptations, I can not stay away. It does not help matters at all that Mr. Frick and I run in the exact same social circles and must, of necessity, see each other on an almost daily basis. And once we are in the same room, I find I can’t look away. I am drawn to him like a moth to a flame - I know it is a destructive instinct and yet I’m unable to fight it. Whatever shall we do?’ _

 

“Damn, Billy. What the fuck did you go and do that for?” I grumbled, angrier on Peebles’ behalf than was logical. Somehow, though, I felt personally betrayed. “I think I have to agree with you, Brian; Billy was a total nympho. And kind of a slut, too, if we’re being honest.”

 

“Now, now, Sunshine. We shouldn’t judge,” Brian cautioned. “Weren’t you the one who was commenting earlier that there was too big a difference in their ages and it wasn’t going to end well? You shouldn’t be surprised to find yourself proved right.”

 

I growled and complained that I didn’t WANT to be right this time as I read aloud the final few entries that confirmed our suspicions about Billy’s shifting affections. 

 

_ “‘May 5, 1886 - I just received a note saying that Andrew has returned from Philadelphia and wishes to see me this evening. I have been in a panic since the moment I read this missive. What am I going to say to him? Should I bear my soul and confess or maintain my silence and hide my shame? I desperately wish that there was anyone I could confide in but, alas, men like myself must perforce live our lives in silence or risk destruction. However, I do not know how I can face Andrew after what I have done.’ _

 

_ “‘May 6, 1886 - It is over! I had to tell him. I went to see Andrew, prepared to stifle my qualms and carry on as if nothing had changed, but he immediately sensed that he’d already lost my heart. He called me out and I was forced to confess all my transgressions. Perhaps it is for the best. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I did not find that result to be true for myself. My former obsession has grown decidedly cold, perhaps killed by the frosts of winter, or maybe just burned out by the warmth that I found this spring while at Jay’s country house. But either way, it was there no more upon Andrew’s return. I can only hope that sweet Andrew will find some other to amuse him from here on. Meanwhile, I am determined to remember our time together fondly - I have no regrets other than how I mangled the ending of such a fond interlude.’” _

 

“Well, so much for the promise of true love,” Brian concluded, shoving back his chair and getting to his feet. “True lust wins out again.”

 

“Don’t say that,” I argued, closing the disappointing journal and trotting after Eggy as he headed out of the kitchen. “Maybe what Billy and Peebles had wasn’t true love - I mean, they were kind of a mismatch, age-wise and all - but that doesn’t mean that kind of love doesn’t exist. It just means Andrew wasn’t the right one for Billy.”

 

“You sound like a silly romantic fool, Sunshine,” Brian scoffed disdainfully and stomped off without another word. 

 

I followed Eggy into his bedroom, still clutching Billy’s journal in my hand as if I might need it as evidence in whatever argument we were about to have, watching as he tossed the robe he’d been wearing aside and climbed back into bed. I could tell by the tense set of his shoulders and the frown wrinkles on his forehead that he was angry, I just didn’t know why. Why did he suddenly seem all closed off, like he was excluding me, both emotionally and maybe physically as well? What had I said to so annoy him? He wasn’t seriously THAT offended by my prattling on about ‘True Love’, was he? It almost felt like he was blaming me for the unhappy ending we’d been reading about in Billy’s journal. 

 

I approached the bed cautiously, not completely sure if I was still welcome or not. He didn’t even look up, though, when I sat gingerly on the far edge of the mattress. I nervously played with a tiny frayed section on the hemming of the duvet while I wracked my brain to come up with something to say; some way to break through the icy barrier that had appeared between us without warning. 

 

“Egbert?” He still didn’t look up, just kept staring at his hands which were clenched around a wad of sheets and blankets. “Brian, please. Talk to me. Did I say something to piss you off? What’s wrong?”

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

“Obviously it’s something or you wouldn’t be pouting like that.”

 

“I’m not pouting!” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest while his pout got even more exaggerated. I wanted nothing more than to kiss it away, but controlled myself. Now wasn’t the time. 

 

It was just so ridiculous - the way he was acting like a grouchy four year old who’d been punished for being naughty - that I found myself laughing out loud. Which, of course, only made Brian more angry and more pouty. I mean, what a huge Drama Queen, right? So I laughed even harder, eventually falling sideways onto the pillows and rocking back and forth, overcome with mirth. And, even when Eggy slapped half-heartedly at me with the back of one hand trying to get me to shut up, I only laughed harder, till there were tears starting to leak out of the corners of my eyes. It got so bad I was sorta gasping, having trouble catching my breath as I literally roared with laughter, and rolling around on the edge of the bed, until I rolled just a little too far and fell all the way off the damned mattress. Which stopped the laughter, at least.

 

“Are you done giggling yourself silly at my expense, Brat?” Brian asked, peering down at me over the side of the bed.

 

“I don’t know. Are you done throwing your preschool temper tantrum?” I asked, smiling up at him with one last chuckle. 

 

“You’re the biggest fucking brat I’ve ever met, you know that, right?” he growled at me, although I could tell he wasn’t quite as upset as he’d been before, having finally succumbed to the infection of my sense of hilarity. 

 

“Me? You should see yourself when you’re acting like a pouty four year old, Eggy. It’s kind of adorable.”

 

He relented, no longer frowning, just shaking his head at me the way he always does, like he simply doesn’t know WHAT to make of me. “Get up off the floor before you freeze to death, you little shit,” he ordered, holding up the edge of the blankets for me so I could slide back into bed with him. 

 

I immediately stripped off the t-shirt and sweats I’d been wearing and climbed in. He was toasty warm. I naturally rolled over so I was snuggled up against his side, in my usual position, my left hand snaking across his waist to pull him even closer. I smiled and let the warmth of his body seep through my skin.

 

‘Shit, even when he’s acting like a baby’, I thought to myself, ‘he’s still beautiful. I still want to be with him. I still love him . . .’

 

And, with that thought bouncing crazily around in my brain, I suddenly realized it was true. 

 

I loved him. 

 

I LOVED this amazingly complex and slightly exasperating man. Whatever we’d had - the initial attraction, the growing affection, the full-blown lust of our early explorations - it had all been leading up to this. I loved him, OCD rituals, hairy face, temper tantrums, and all. This was something I’d never come close to before. Something I’d never felt before. I was fucking in love. This was it for me.

 

“Damn . . .” I mumbled, overwhelmed by my private, earth-shattering, epiphany. 

 

While I had been busy, trying to wrap my head around my stunning new discovery, Brian had finally begun to explain himself, and I eventually tuned in to what he’d been saying. “I . . . I guess . . . It’s just that Billy sounds so . . . So ungrateful, you know? Here’s Peebles, working his ass off, spending fuck knows how much money in the process, to protect Billy. Building him secret rooms and staircases and tunnels and showing him the ropes of gay life, which couldn’t have been easy back then. And the second he’s away on business the annoying little twink just forgets about him? That’s gratitude for you, huh? It just goes to prove you can’t fucking trust anyone . . .”

 

Which is when it dawned on me just what the problem was here; Brian was identifying with Peebles. He saw himself as the older man with the twink lover. He had been lonely and unsure of himself until, almost miraculously, he found a lover who returned his affections. But, even when he’d done all he could to prove his love, Peebles was abandoned; exactly the thing that Brian himself was scared of, and the reason he’d isolated himself in this safe, empty tower for so long.

 

“You can trust me, Brian,” I stated boldly. 

 

He snorted softly and turned his head, looking off towards the far corner of the room, preventing me from seeing his expression clearly. But I wasn’t going to take that. I grabbed hold of his chin and pulled his face around, propping myself up on my right elbow so I could look directly into his eyes. 

 

“You CAN trust me, Brian,” I insisted. “Despite appearances, I’m not some flighty little Twink. And I’m not going to just disappear on you one day.”

 

“You say that now, but . . .”

 

“No buts,” I maintained. “I’m serious here. I’m not like Billy. If anything, I’m more like Peebles.” He looked skeptical, so I started listing all my arguments, pointing them out by tapping my fingers against his chest, one at a time, as I went. “I’m an artist who is fascinated with architecture. I’m tenacious - I’ll go to ridiculous lengths to get what I want. I’m protective, and maybe even a little bit possessive, of what I perceive to be mine. And, while I might have a bit of a romantic streak in me, I’d like to think it’s tempered with practicality. Which is why, you see, I’d do whatever it takes to make sure I can be with the man I love.”

 

He seemed inordinately shocked at my little declaration, staring up at me with little wrinkles of confusion outlining his eyes and a puckering at the downturned corners of his lips. But I refused to look away. I would stare down any doubts he might have. I would pelt him with my truth until he finally believed he could trust me not to take his love and then abandon him. I would infuse him with my own, newfound, certainty.

 

“Do you trust me?” I asked when I started to see the first flicker of credence peek out from under his long, dark auburn lashes. “Tell me, Brian, do you trust me?”

 

I waited. It took him a full minute or more to reply. I could see the arguments - both pro and con - flittering behind his eyelids. But I just kept staring at him and refusing to back down. Just when it was starting to feel awkward, though, he relented. I could see the moment he accepted what I was promising him; his whole body seemed to relax, the worry lines on his forehead smoothed out, and he let out the breath he’d been subconsciously holding. 

 

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I think I actually do.”

 

“Good.” 

 

I leaned in so I could kiss him to seal the promise, loving the way his tentative response gradually became surer the longer our lips remained joined. Damn, for somebody who hated germs, it was pretty amazing how well that boy could kiss, you know? But, just when it was starting to get really heated, I felt him pulling away. I tried to follow him, refusing to relinquish his lips for even a second, but he pushed me away with a small chuckle and leaned across the bed towards the tray full of condoms. However, instead of grabbing one of the flavored ones we’d been using lately, he plucked out one of his personal Trojan XL’s, leading me to think my Eggy had something special in mind.

 

“Go on, slip it on my dick,” he ordered imperiously, causing little happy shivers of anticipation to gallop up my spine.

 

I accepted the small foil packet, tore it open and followed directions like a good little boy, rolling the latex disc all the way down the thickness of his throbbing cock. I immediately started stroking him, expecting that to be where all this was headed, with no objection from me, of course, because fuck knows I loved the weighty feel of holding him in my hand. But before I really got going, he stopped me, handing off another condom and pointing to my own dick. Okay, I thought, mutual handjobs. Sweet. This was trending better and better. 

 

I scrambled to suit up as fast as was humanly possible but when I reached for his cock again, he intercepted me, pushing my body away. I was totally confused by that point. I didn’t struggle, though, as the steady pressure of his big hand against my chest continued to press me further and further back until I was lying down all the way with my head against the pillows. But it wasn’t until he began to climb up the bed, straddling my legs, that I finally got an idea where, exactly, Brian was going with all this. 

 

Was he really going to . . . Holy shit! 

 

Needless to say, I was kinda shocked. I hadn’t seen this coming at all. I didn’t think he was anywhere close to being ready for THIS . . . Not that I was going to complain, mind you.

 

“Relax, Brat,” he crooned with that sexy, half-hidden smile peeking out of the wilds of his beard. “You told me I could trust you; now you’re going to have to return the favor.”

 

Okay, so, I admit I’d tensed up a bit, but it was only the surprise factor. I absolutely trusted him; I tried to relax as he commanded. However, I was almost afraid to breathe, let alone say anything - worried that if I made the wrong move or said too much he’d stop - so actually relaxing was a tough call. 

 

A minute later, and all my relaxation efforts were completely blown away when Brian moved around so that he could lift my legs up to his shoulders. His motions were measured but intentional. This was something he wanted and he was making a conscious decision to move forward. And I was so there for all of it! Now I was the one holding my breath expectantly.

 

Without a word, Brian snicked open the top of the lube and squirted a heavy dollop directly on the sensitive skin around my hole. I gave a small yelp and jumped. This caused my soon-to-be-lover to grin down at me mischievously. 

 

“It’s cold,” I complained.

 

“It’ll heat up.”

 

I nodded up at him. 

 

“Now, finger yourself for me,” Brian ordered, pulling back so that he was resting on his haunches, watching my every move. 

 

Did I mention how turned on I was by a domineering Eggy? Shit! I immediately spread my legs and dropped my knees onto the mattress. I felt extremely exposed but the horniest I have ever been in my whole entire life. 

 

I could feel him watching me as I started to run my index finger through the lube around my hole. He was right, this definitely had heated up. I looked over and noticed that the lubricant we were using was one of those high end brands that I could never in my wildest dreams afford, the kind which leaves you feeling all hot and tingly. 

 

“Put your finger inside, Justin. I’m waiting.”

 

Fuck, he was so sexy when he was being all controlling. 

 

I didn’t hesitate, I did as he asked and stuck my finger up my ass. Damn, it felt good. I pumped my finger in and out for a while before he told me to add another. I groaned loudly, the feel of my fingers, the heat from the lube, and the knowledge that he was watching me was almost too much. 

 

“That’s it, Justin. Just like that. Spread your fingers a little.”

 

“Mmmm.”

 

“Now add another finger and lift your ass up for me.”

 

“Mmm, Brian . . . this . . . this feels so good.”

 

“Yeah?” He was grinning at me with the biggest fucking smile and I wanted to kiss him so badly. Scratch that - I NEEDED to kiss him. 

 

“Kiss me,” I painted heavily as my fingers continued to work their magic. 

 

As soon as I said it, Brian was leaning down and taking my lips between his, kissing me like he’d never kissed me before. It was intense and romantic and hotter than hell, all at the same time. 

 

Next, he popped open the lube again, this time applying a generous amount to his condom-coated dick. Was this really about to happen? I felt like I was living in a dream. With his OCD and all that entailed, I’d never actually believed we’d get to this point - at least not this soon. And I’d been more than willing to wait. But if I didn’t have to, I was fine with that too. More than fine, to be honest. Hell, I was totally, completely, one hundred percent on board with this development. I dug my fingers a little deeper inside my ass, hitting my prostate just right, and moaned. Fuck, yeah, I was more than ready for what I hoped was coming.

 

Just then, Brian reached for the wrist of the hand that was still working at my hole and pulled my fingers out - more roughly than I expected - causing me to groan loudly. 

 

“Look at me, Justin. I need you to keep your eyes open, okay?”

 

I nodded and watched as he crawled towards me, effortlessly cinching my legs higher over his shoulders, taking his dick in his hand, and giving it a few strokes before he brought it up to my hole. I heard myself exhale loudly as he rubbed himself teasingly against the sensitive skin of my ass. Shit! I probably wasn’t half as nervous the night I lost my virginity, but right then? Yeah, I was a needy, expectant mess. 

 

“Are you ready, Justin? Are you ready to forget your name?”

 

“Fuck, yes.” Hell, by that point I’d have begged if I thought it would hurry this thing along because I didn’t think I’d ever wanted anything more in my entire life.

 

“Good boy,” he breathed out. The look on his face was unreal; he looked exactly the same as he always did, except there was something different in his eyes. Confidence, maybe? I don’t know. But I liked it.

 

I locked eyes with Brian as I felt him begin to slowly push inside of me, but he soon looked away, his eyes focused on his dick, watching in amazement as he slowly entered me. 

 

“Look at us, Justin. Look at how your body is enveloping me so easily, so eagerly. Your ass was made for me.”

 

I shivered at his words. The feeling of being owned by him at this moment was almost too much - especially when it had all been so unexpected - despite my personal epiphany of a little while earlier. Don’t get me wrong, I was perfectly fine being owned by this glorious man, but it was all coming at me so fast. It was a lot to adjust to. I had to take a deep breath and allow myself to relax as he pressed further into me. 

 

Also, did I mention before just how fucking huge Eggy is - my asshole was stinging from the stretch even while the fullness inside of me felt amazing - so, yeah, relaxing was a tiny bit problematic here, you know, no matter how much I wanted him.

 

“More . . . I need all of you,” I heard myself begging despite everything and could see myself pawing at his body, trying to pull him closer; proving, once again, that mind over matter was a real thing. 

 

“Shit . . . fuck.” Brian was panting wildly above me as he pushed inside me all the way to his balls. 

 

My body swallowed his cock to the hilt. I was clenching onto it tightly, like I was afraid he might suddenly realize he wasn’t ready for this and try to escape. Now that I knew what it felt like to have him inside of me, I couldn’t go back. I just couldn’t.

 

“Oh, shit, Brian . . . Fuck me . . . Harder.”

 

Brian stopped moving. He looked at me, the lust momentarily clearing from his eyes, and I saw him glance at our connected bodies. For a brief moment I thought that was it, we were done; he was going to freak and pull out. But then he smiled at me, a gloriously happy gleam sparking in his hazel eyes, and started thrusting his hips like his life depended on it. I swear to all that’s gay, he was hitting places inside of me that had never been touched before. I struggled to breath as he relentlessly pushed and pulled, in and out of my body. 

 

“That’s it, Justin. Give yourself to me.”

 

“I am . . . you . . . you have all of me, Brian. All of me.”

 

I knew I wouldn’t last much longer. Not when he was whispering shit like that in my ear and his cock was pumping in and out of my ass, taking me to places I had never been. Plus there was also the whole deliciousness of his weight pressing my body into the mattress. Can you say, Amaaaaaaazing? Fucking, yeah!

 

When I couldn’t take it any longer, I tried to reach for my cock, which was sandwiched between our sweaty bodies, but Brian kept pushing my hand away. 

 

“Stop it. Don’t touch yourself. I want you to come from my cock alone. Are you ready?”

 

He had the sexiest look in his eyes as he spoke; a mixture of determination and mischief. I nodded my head and, with both hands, I gripped tightly onto his biceps, enjoying the feel of his muscles pulsating under my fingers as he exerted himself. I could feel myself unraveling, the tingling in my spine becoming more and more intense the closer I got to coming. I already knew this orgasm was going to be insane because I was starting to see flashes of lights and I knew I was already holding my breath. 

 

“That’s it, Justin. Let go. Come for me.”

 

Well, if he fucking insisted.

 

It was like I had no control of my body; it was listening to him instead of me. And the moment he told me to let go, I did. I felt myself exploding into the condom. I tried to maintain eye contact with the god possessing me, body and soul, but couldn’t. My eyes fluttered, eventually squeezing tightly shut, allowing me to enjoy the fireworks going off behind my eyelids as I literally saw stars. I couldn’t control how much I was shaking. It was like I’d been caught in the middle of a private electrical storm and the lightning was arcing through my body, sending me into happy convulsions of sensation. 

 

Luckily, the feel of Brian’s powerful orgasm seemed to bring me back a heartbeat later. Somehow it seemed to ground me; it allowed me to once again focus on the reality of this world. I melted back into my bones and savoured the feel of his cock pulsating in my ass. 

 

Finally, Brian groaned loudly in my ear, collapsing on top of me as he finished. 

 

“Mmhmm,” I hummed, enjoying the comforting feeling of the larger body blanketing me. “Not that I’m complaining or anything, but I’m curious. What brought all that on?”

 

I felt Brian’s weight shift as he rolled sideways, leaning over so he could reach down onto the floor beside the bed, and waving the worn diary he found there in my face. 

 

“What? Andrew and Billy’s relationship crashing and burning makes you horny? That’s kind of twisted, you know?” I joked.

 

He used the journal to slap me upside the head lightly. “No, wiseass. What I mean is . . .” He laid the diary down atop my chest and tapped at the cover nervously with his fingers as he worked to come up with the words to explain himself. “I guess it was all that shit with Billy and how you were saying it was all about trust.” I could feel the tension this discussion caused him, the unease communicated directly through our sweat-plastered bodies, skin to skin. Finally, he just shrugged and let his hand fall still. “You said I could trust you. That you aren’t like Billy. And, I just . . . I knew it was true. I knew I COULD trust you. So . . .”

 

“So . . .” I repeated, offering him a smile that was so big it felt like my face was going to crack wide open.

 

Because, yeah. Love. And trust. Yeah.

  
*******

Chapter Music Selection - [ Trust by Sarah McLachlan. ](https://youtu.be/i6CgvdjVtfs)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6/26/19 - As always, we authors take our research seriously, so it’s no surprise we researched the perfect christmas gift for a gay man to give his lover in the 1880s and came up with this: The Sins of The Cities of The Plain - this book, first published in 1881, is widely cited as the first ever work of pornographic gay literature. I haven’t read it yet myself, but from what I understand, it details the adventures of a ‘Mary Ann’ (aka, a rent boy) in England. Which is just the kind of thing our Billy would be interested in, don’t you think? I believe you can sometimes still find used copies of this book on Amazon, in case you’re interested... So, how’d you like the big hoorah? *wink* TAG & Sally.


	32. Uncover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys uncover more about the historical romance they're investigating, as well as themselves... Enjoy! TAG & Sally.

 

Chapter 32 - Uncover.

  
  


I woke up pinned to the mattress under 150-some-pounds of sweaty, naked, hairy man. My ass was ridiculously sore, but in a good way. I smelled like a cum-drenched gym sock that had been left to marinate in an oven for most of the night. My right arm was numb from having the circulation cut off for fuck knows how long. The left side of my face was scratched and sore due to severe beard-burn. And every time I inhaled, there was this one beard hair, longer than all the rest, that tickled my nose and made me want to sneeze.

 

Yeah, I’d never been happier in my entire fucking life.

 

And if I hadn’t needed to piss like a racehorse, I would have liked nothing better than to stay there, cocooned in a warm nest of blankets and weighted down by my lover’s body, forever. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like my Eggy was ready to move. I tried to wiggle a little hoping to wake him gently, but he just snored louder than usual into my right ear and settled down more firmly to sleep. 

 

A minute later those snores were matched with an almost equally loud purring in my left ear from the cat perched on the pillow beside my head. I turned my head slightly and looked into the slitted golden eyes of Mr. William Shakespaw. Maybe I was reading too much into the situation, but I thought that Bill was looking at me a little judgmentally, like he knew Brian and I had done it, and wasn’t sure he approved. It made me feel a bit self-conscious, and if I could have freed my arms to shoo him away I would have. But Bill just blinked at me, as if in greeting, and then reached out with one paw to gently pat at my nose. Of course, this didn’t help with my allergies any, and combined with the nasal tickling I’d already received via Eggy’s beard, my nose decided it wasn’t going to take it anymore. 

 

*AAAAACHOOOOO!*

 

At least my sneezing finally woke up my man blanket; Brian startled and rolled away from the now snotty mess I’d become. If I wasn’t afraid it would result in more snot explosions, I’d have had to laugh at Eggy’s grossed out look when he discovered the mucus and germ-laden state of his bed companion. He rushed to pull several tissues out of the box on his bed stand and shoved them at me insistently.

 

“Morning!” I burbled, then honked into the wad of kleenex until I was able to breathe correctly again. “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to wake you but your beard was tickling my nose, Big Guy.”

 

“What do you have against my beard?” he mumbled, finally calming a bit now that there wasn’t any snot in sight. 

 

I felt myself lean forward until my face was pressed tightly against Brian’s and rubbed my already sore cheek against his prickly beard. I really did love it. It was so rugged . . . so manly . . . mmm. 

 

“I have nothing against your beard, in fact I think it **’** s incredibly sexy . . . My skin, however, isn’t too fond of being torn to pieces every time it comes into contact with that patch of wiry bristles. I mean, normally it’s fine when we’re just making out, but last night, when you were devouring me like some wild animal, I thought my face might actually catch fire from all the friction.” I laughed at how pathetic I sounded, but shit, it hurt. 

 

“Could you be any more fucking dramatic,” Brian scoffed, rubbing self consciously at his beard as he took in the red marks all over my face. “You’re probably allergic to me.”

 

I hit him playfully. “Don’t even joke about that.” Because seriously, that would be just my luck. 

 

Brian shrugged and climbed out of bed, walking towards the bathroom - all naked and delicious. If I stayed in bed where I was, I could see him staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, but as much as I wanted to just lay back and ogle him and his naked perfection, I still had to piss something fierce. So I got up and padded after him, jumping slightly as my feet hit the cold tiles. I hopped about for a second until I got used to them, but I finally made it to the toilet to take care of business. And when I was done, I looked up and saw him smirking at me in the reflection of the mirror. 

 

“You got ants in your pants this morning or something?” he teased. 

 

“Your place is always so cold.”

 

He turned around and wrapped his arms around me tightly. “There, that better?”

 

“Mmmm,” I hummed. 

 

“How about now?” he asked, rubbing his beard roughly against my face and laughing maniacally like the asshole that he was. 

 

“You’re a dick.”

 

“I was going to make a really funny comment about you sucking me off - but we have more important things to do.”

 

I scrunched up my face. “What’s more important than sucking you off?” This was a legitimate question, because honestly, I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather be doing.

 

“Usually, nothing, but . . .” I watched as he retrieved something from underneath the sink. “This morning, you’re going to help me get rid of this thing,” he said, scratching at his beard while he examined his hairy self in the mirror. 

  
  


“Brian, I was only kidding . . .” Well, I was mostly kidding.

 

“It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a while. I just . . . I guess the idea of shaving kinda freaked me out, you know? I’ve had it for so long. Change is . . . not my strong point, as you might have noticed.”

 

I nodded. I knew change was hard for him, and if this was truly something he wanted to do, then I would help him, but I didn’t want him to do it just for me. This HAD to be for him. 

 

“Okay, But only if you’re sure.” I asked. “And I’m not using that.” I pointed to the elector razor in his hands. “It’ll clog the blades.”

 

“I know,” he rolled his eyes at me like I was an idiot. “This is for later. First you’ll need to trim it with those,” he explained, pointing to the scissors on the countertop. “Then we can either use this,” he grinned, waving the electric razor at me. Or, if you’re feeling brave, you could try this.” He laughed, handing me the sharpest straight edge razor I had ever seen. Judging by the look on his face, I don’t think he was expecting me to pick the blade so quickly. 

  
  
  


“I swear, you better not slit my throat with that thing.” He was joking, but I could tell there was some anxiety behind his words. 

 

“You trust me? Right?” I asked, bumping our hips together to try and lighten his mood. 

 

He nodded seriously. “Sure . . .”

 

“Good, then if you will please follow me, Sir.” I grinned and pulled him around so that my back was now against the countertop, hopping up and spreading my legs, then pulling him into the vee of my thighs, before placing a hand towel across my legs. 

 

I held the scissors tightly in one hand as I gathered as much hair as I could in the other. “You ready?” 

 

Brian took a deep breath and eventually nodded. 

 

So I started. I cut as close to the skin as I could. We both watched as the hair fell onto my lap in large chunks. I heard him gulp loudly. 

 

“You wanna take a peak?”

 

He shook his head, his eyes refusing to look in the mirror. “No, finish it first.”

 

It didn’t take long until I’d finish with the scissors, cropping the entirety of his beard close enough to make shaving feasible. I scooted over slightly, depositing the trimmings into the trashcan and filling the sink up with warm water. I then used a washcloth to wet his face and remove as many stray hairs as possible. Finally, I used some ridiculously expensive shaving foam - no idea why he had that in his bathroom when he’d never shaved before, but whatever - and lathered him up real good, making sure to put a huge dollop on his nose, just because I could, and because I’m a little shit like that. 

 

I scooted closer and raised the blade up to his cheek, but he quickly grabbed my hand. 

 

“You do know how to do this, right?”

 

“It may take me longer than you to actually grow some facial hair, but I have shaved before, you know!” I was being a smart ass. 

 

“Yeah, but this isn’t like a normal razor, this thing is extra sharp. It’s not some disposable Gillette safety razor, kid.”

 

I leaned forward and gave him a kiss, getting shaving cream all over my face in the process. “I know. But it’ll be okay. My father originally taught me to shave using one of these.”

 

The look on his face was priceless. I don’t think he was expecting that. 

 

“He taught you to shave using a regular straight blade? What was wrong with using a regular razor like everyone else?” 

 

“Because my father doesn’t like being the same as everyone else. He’s a pretentious asshole who believes he’s truly better than others. And he would never touch some tacky piece of plastic like that to his face.”

 

Brian ran his hands down my bare arms; his way of saying he understood and that he was sorry I was raised by an asshole. I shook my head - I don’t know why doing that helps me clear my mind, but it does - and then offered him a smile. 

 

He returned a grin from behind his lather. “Fine. Let’s get this done, then. My ass is getting cold standing here,” he said, changing the subject from my father for me. 

 

“Your ass? I’m the one sitting bare-assed on a marble countertop.”

 

He shivered. “I may have come a long way, but please don’t tell me that - I don’t wanna know anything about your ass touching something besides my cock.”

 

“I’m sorry,” I apologized, giving him one last kiss before bringing the razor up to his right cheek and making the first swipe. 

 

There was something incredibly intimate about this moment, and it wasn’t just the fact that we were standing there together naked. It was the way he was trusting me with a sharp blade at his throat. The way we worked together, him tilting his head as I directed or turning to the side so I could get to another spot. The way my hands would feel along his jawline to make sure I hadn’t missed any spots. We barely spoke; mostly just one word or two whispered here and there, with a subvocal grunt in reply. And yet we were communicating so perfectly that you could almost envision the connection we had. It was beyond physical. 

 

It was all about that new trust we shared. 

 

So I took my time, enjoying the moment, as I patiently scraped at his cheeks and chin, removing a section of stubble and then wiping the blade on my towel, before moving to the next area. Slowly excavating the real Brian Kinney hidden behind the mask he’d made for himself. Uncovering the beauty I knew was underneath with each small patch of skin revealed. Until I’d scraped off the last little dribbles of lather from under his nose and it was done. 

 

When I finally looked at the finished product, I let out a loud gasp at the gorgeous man standing before me. 

  
  


I used a clean corner of the towel to wipe away any last traces of the shaving cream and dropped it in the sink. Then I just sat there, awed into silence, gazing in wonder at the face of the Greek God I’d just uncovered. Because, fuck me, I’d always thought Eggy was handsome, but I’d had no fucking idea that under his scraggly beard he was this damned GORGEOUS!

 

“Fuuuuuckkkk!” I muttered, at a loss for words.

 

“What?” Brian took a step back, startled by my response. “Is it that bad? Am I that hideous?”

 

“Hideous? Fuck no! Shit, Egbert, you’re . . . I don’t know if there are adequate words to describe how utterly beautiful you are,” I exclaimed, reaching out to pull him back, closer to me. 

 

The skin that had just been unearthed from behind Eggy’s whiskers was at least two shades paler than his normal golden complexion, which is probably why the ensuing blush showed up so well. He tried to look away, embarrassed, but I refused to let him. I took hold of his strong, square jaw and physically forced him to look at me. Forced him to stare directly into my eyes. I wanted him to see the truth of my words in my eyes. 

 

“You are stunning, Brian. You literally take my breath away. It’s practically a crime for you to hide yourself away - behind a beard or behind these walls, it doesn’t matter - because a work of art, like you, deserves to be worshiped,” I declared with all the sincerity I could infuse into the words. 

 

Okay, so maybe I tend towards the hyperbolic at times. I can’t help it that I’m passionate about my art - it’s just part of my nature - but I’d never felt this passionate about another person before. I mean, I've had my share of boyfriends, even a few I thought I was in love with, but there had never been anyone who’d inspired me with so much . . . Reverence is the only word that came to mind at that moment . . . With as much reverence as I felt for the amazing man standing in front of me. He was the epitome of physical perfection and his emotional complexity and inherent vulnerability only added to the attraction. I wanted to bow and kiss his feet. I wanted to wrap him in cotton and keep him safe. I wanted to fucking ravish him and eat him alive. 

 

And I wanted to kiss him.

 

So that’s what I did. I reached up with one hand and pulled his newly shorn face down towards me until I could reach his lips. He didn’t kiss me back with full force at first. I think he still wasn’t convinced of the truth of my words. But eventually he gave in, his lips responding as I bit and nibbled and sucked at him until he relinquished control. That was when I knew he had finally accepted my assertion that I really did find him to be beautiful - or at the very least he was no longer fighting it. So I kissed him some more in celebration, my hands stroking at his smooth cheeks and my lips following along to nibble at the fresh skin I found whenever I wandered from his mouth. We were both breathless by the time I finally let up. 

 

“Okay, this is what we’re going to do next,” I declared, getting up off the counter and moving the both of us around so that Brian was sitting in my place, making him short enough that I could reach his hair. “I’m going to give your hair a little trim, so it matches your newly spiffy face, and then I’m going to sketch you in all your unhairy handsomeness.”

 

Brian started to protest that he didn’t need a haircut too, but I wasn’t listening. I’d already grabbed up the scissors and a comb and started to snip at the too-long tendrils that were obscuring his eyebrows. It didn’t take me very long to neaten him up. I left it a little longer on top but went ruthlessly short on the sides and above the collar in the back. And shit, was he ever amazing-looking when it was all done. I swear, he could be a fucking model or something, the way he looks. Which is precisely what I wanted him to be - for me - so I hustled him back into the bedroom and arranged him artistically on the bed and spent the next hour or so drawing the Adonis.

  
  


Since it was a Saturday, and we’d been up late the night before, I didn’t feel at all guilty when I crawled back into bed to join my newly-shorn Samson, who’d dozed off while I was doing my artistic thing. It was pretty evident, though, that this Samson hadn’t lost any of his powers despite losing his hair - in fact, he seemed to have more energy than ever, judging by the enthusiasm he showed when he woke me for yet another fuck after about an hour. I had apparently created a monster. Shit, I wasn’t sure my ass was up for this development, but I was definitely going to enjoy it in the meantime. 

 

“Fuuuucckkkk!” Eggy sighed as he came, just managing to pull out and remove the condom before he collapsed beside me on the bed. “Have I mentioned how much I missed that all these years?”

 

“I think your actions make that pretty clear,” I replied, stretching out my legs to try and relieve some of the cramping after having been bent in half like a pretzel for the past twenty-some minutes. “Good thing you didn’t completely forget how during your hiatus.”

 

“They say it’s like riding a bike - you never forget,” he grinned at me like a happy goof.

 

“I’d rather ride you,” I hummed, twisting my body around so I could drape myself over the top of him, reveling in the unrestrained touching, not to mention the fact that Eggy wasn’t immediately jumping up to disinfect the both of us.

 

“Sorry, Brat. The spirit is willing but, for once, I think the body will need a few minutes to recover,” Brian half-apologized. “I forgot how much more . . . strenuous . . . real sex is compared to simply jerking off. You can get off either way, but I haven’t had to be quite this athletic in a while.”

 

We both chuckled quietly, thinking back over the athleticism of the past few hours. And if I was being honest, I really needed a bit of a break myself. Cuz, I do love to bottom, but it had been a while since I’d been fucked that much in such a short period of time. I figured I was gonna need to ease my way back into the role. Either that, or convince Egbert to switch off every so often so my ass had time to recover between rounds. But, no way was I about to argue with my hermit’s suggestion that we give ourselves a bit of a break.

 

On the other hand, after our impromptu nap, I wasn’t the least bit sleepy. So, to keep myself occupied while we snuggled - and, yes, it WAS snuggling even though I hesitated to bring that fact to my touchy lover’s attention - I reached once more for Billy’s journal. I guess there was something sorta striking in the contrast between whatever Brian and I had, and the way our relationship was blossoming, and the destruction of the historical love affair I’d been reading about. Maybe I was just projecting my own happiness, but I really wanted Billy and Andrew to figure it out. To come together despite all the adversities they were fighting and the public sentiment of the time. I WANTED them to have a happy ending. It was almost like, if THEY could work things out, even considering all the strikes against them, then Brian and I would be sure to end up happy as well. And, yeah, I knew that was naive, but it didn’t change the fact that I was still rooting for Billy and Andrew, despite reading about their breakup. 

 

So, while we were lazing about, I dove into the journal again, only to have my high hopes dashed almost immediately. 

 

_ ‘May 8, 1886 - Things have been moving apace and I am amazed at the outcome of these many bewildering developments. One hopes that writing it down will somehow assist in making sense of it all, although that is a tall order. Yesterday, I found out through a mutual acquaintance, that Andrew and Jay had a serious falling out, no doubt in consequence of my dire revelations. Apparently the two almost came to blows, held back only because of the public venue in which this argument came to pass. Thankfully, according to my source no names were revealed, so I am not discovered as being the basis of their disagreement. However, it seems that the partnership between the two men may be irredeemably broken. I am devastated to have been the cause of this disaster. It was never my intent to come between two such admirable men. Besides, it is not as if Jay were free to act upon our secret leanings - he is a married man. We can never nurture the tendrils of what bloomed between us this Spring. It would be even more impossible than the already impossible situation I have been attempting to keep secret since I first met Andrew. This entire imbroglio is impossible, to be honest . . .  _

 

“Damn. Doesn’t look like Billy and Andrew are going to be able to work things out,” I announced, and showed Brian the passage I’d just read. 

 

Brian took over reading at that point, the next entry confirming my fears. “ _ ‘May 10, 1886 - Just returned from a private assignation, after receiving a note from Jay that he needed to see me immediately. I met with him at the Hotel Liberty, for lack of other better accommodations, and was astonished to hear this man, who obviously knows how insurmountable the obstacles before us truly are, importuning me to continue our association. I knew I should deny him, send him on his way back to his wife and societal obligations, but I found I could not. I know we are both mad. There is no possible way we can ever attain that of which we dream. And yet I could not send him off or tell him no. How this may work, I have no idea. I will not - can not - deny myself further, though I be damned for it through all eternity.’” _

 

Brian shook his head and tossed the folio back to me in disgust. “If you ask me, Billy really is crazy if he thinks he’s better off with Jay. No way is that going to end well. Guys like Jay - rich and from a prominent family - don’t leave their wives for their cute twinkie boyfriends,” Brian commented, mirroring my own thoughts. 

 

And, as we continued reading, it quickly became clear that Brian was right; poor, naive, overly-trusting Billy, really didn’t know what he was getting himself into. Worse yet, it seemed that the dalliance with Jay was doing actual harm to old Peebles. The more I read, the more disgusted I got with Billy’s flightiness.

 

_ ‘June 12, 1886 - Jay informed me today that he and Andrew have permanently dissolved their association. Jay has obtained the financial support needed to buy out Andrew’s interest in the Triangle Building and will be taking over it’s management. Andrew is returning to Philadelphia, for the time being, to finalize his work there. He is not slated to return to Pittsburgh until sometime next year, when he will be starting work on the Lutheran church here. I am saddened by this development but feel it is perhaps for the best. It was exceedingly difficult seeing him at the Club and other social venues. It is my sincere hope that this time away from all the reminders of our past will heal his soul. And, on a personal level, the development makes it easier for Jay and I to continue to build what we have started.’ _

 

“And after all Peebles did for the twat? Ingrate,” Brian proclaimed, not any happier with Billy than I was.

 

“Yeah . . . I don’t know. Maybe it will all work out somehow?” I hoped.

 

Reading on through the next couple of entries, Billy continued to gush about his plans with the new love interest. “ _ ‘June 15, 1886 - Father has finally returned to Pittsburgh and will thankfully take up the reins on the many business enterprises he and Uncle Andrew had me managing all last winter. I will gladly give up the tedium of acting as their factotum for the time being. And, with all my resurrected free time, I will hopefully be able to spend more time with my dear Jay . . .’”  _

 

There followed a series of more mundane entries detailing all the many social engagements that Billy enjoyed over the course of that summer. By my calculations he would have been nineteen; a perfect age to ‘sow his wild oats’ as my grandmother would have said. And, reading between the lines of his prosaic descriptions of the many outings and entertainments he and Jay attended together, it certainly sounded like the boy was sowing as many oats as he possibly could. I was torn between empathizing with him over wanting to experience the most out of life, and enjoying his burgeoning relationship with his new lover in the process, and being disappointed with him for leaving Peebles just so he could sneak around behind the back of Jay’s wife. But then I reminded myself I wasn’t in a position to judge since I had no reference for what life was like as a gay man in that day and age. Even in the best of circumstances it would have been difficult for two gay men to be together back then, but with a society type like the younger brother of Henry Clay Frick, one of the brightest lights amongst Pittsburgh’s Steel Elite, it would have been virtually impossible. Still, it didn’t make me feel all warm and happy inside to read about their escapades; not like it had when I was reading about Billy and Andrew. I just had a really bad feeling about the whole situation.

 

That’s when I came across the most shocking entry yet.

 

“Shit! Listen to this,” I warned Brian before reading the whole passage aloud: “‘ _ August 25, 1886 - Disaster! We are discovered! We had gone to Jay’s country estate near Lake Conemaugh earlier in the week so as to escape the heat and stench of summertime Pittsburgh. However, too distracted in our own pursuits, we did not hear the carriage when Alma arrived, intending to join us. Alas, she found us ‘in flagrante delicto’. Needless to say, there was an extremely unpleasant scene. Alma proceeded to leave in the very same carriage she had arrived in. We promptly packed up and followed her back to the city. Jay says he has not spoken to his wife in the days since, as she has hidden herself away at her sister’s and will not see him. What the outcome of this incident will be, no one can tell.’” _

 

“Called it!” Brian crowed. “Like it wasn’t inevitable that they’d get caught - the way they were practically flaunting it and all. At least Peebles was trying to protect Billy with his fucking tunnels. Sounds to me like this Jay didn’t give a damn.”

 

“I don’t know about that; it seems like Jay’s in the soup along with Billy,” I concluded as I started to read the very next entry: “‘ _ September 6, 1886 - I have not written for several days because I have been too desolated to put into words all that has occurred. I have, myself, yet to comprehend it all - perhaps an impossible task - however I will endeavor to relate herein what has transpired. Following our disastrous trip to the country, Jay and I returned to Pittsburgh on the heels of his wife, who absolutely refused to speak with him. Jay, however, remained hopeful that he would eventually be able to reconcile with Alma once he was allowed to somehow explain. Personally, I was doubtful of this, as I couldn’t fathom what possible explanation Jay was likely to give that would alleviate her understandable objections. It was not until the Annual Harvest Festival Dinner at the Club that the two were finally brought face to face. I was watching from the wings, trying to remain unobtrusive, as Jay repeatedly attempted to converse with the woman he’d been married to for so many years. From all appearances, the discussion was not going very well. Alma was reluctant to accord poor Jay any quarter. Jay seemed determined to press the matter, though, and in the end he rather loudly demanded that Alma ‘cease her ridiculous display of hysterics and return home’. Mrs. Alma did not seem inclined towards this suggestion and, equally vociferously, told Jay to unhand her. Alas, dear Jay did not heed the warning.’”  _

 

At that point I almost didn’t want to continue reading - knowing what I knew was the outcome for Alma - but I was too caught up in the story to quit there, so I continued. __

 

_ “ _ Shit! This is bad,” I read on. “‘ _ So, in front of some fifty or more of Pittsburgh’s creme de la creme, Mrs. Alma Frick announced that she did not intend to return to the home or the bed of a Sodomite and advised her husband that, if he desired companionship in the future, he should look to his ‘man whore’ - pointing rather dramatically in my direction. Needless to say, the uproar that surrounded this proclamation was earth shattering. Matters were not ameliorated by the presence of both my parents and Jay’s older brother at the event. Jay and I were each taken in hand by our respective families and summarily removed from the environs of the club. I have since been subjected to endless lectures, admonishments and threats, all meant to force me to amend my evil ways. I have not been allowed any contact whatsoever with Jay or any of my other associates. I have been told I will be completely disinherited and left destitute if I dare to have any congress with Jay Frick ever again, and I do not doubt the certainty of this outcome. In the meantime, there is ongoing discussion of my ostracism to New York so that I will be kept away from the ‘bad influences’ here in The Burgh . . .’” _

 

“I’m not going to say ‘I told you so’,” Brian commented with a sour smile. “But I told you so.”

 

And HE calls ME a brat?

 

“Unfortunately . . .” I then turned the page and read the next, even sadder, entry. “ _ ‘September 10, 1886 - Tragedy has stricken! All hope that our discovery and disgrace will blow over is lost. Jay’s wife, Alma, has cinched the infamy we will be saddled with forevermore by making us all front page news. Alas, Poor Alma has taken her own life! She was found in her sister’s guest room, an empty vial of arsenic on her nightstand, and an accusatory note addressed to Jay in her hand. There is no hope that this scandal can be kept quiet. I am lost . . .’” _

 

From the way the entry was written, it appeared that there should have been more written there, but the bottom half of the page was stained, as if it had suffered water damage of some kind, and the remainder of the journal entry, along with a good many of the following sheets, were torn out. I flipped forward in the book, but there was nothing more. The rest of the journal was blank. 

 

“No!” I yelled at the inanimate journal. “Damn it!”

 

“What? What the fuck’s wrong?” Eggy demanded, startled by my outburst. 

 

I showed him the torn journal page. “It doesn’t say what happened. It just . . . it just fucking ends . . .”

 

Brian laughed at my dramatic outpouring of emotion, but I couldn’t help it. This was totally unexpected. 

 

“Seriously, Brian. I need to know what happened next . . . this is fucking crazy.”

 

“Calm down, brat, you’re talking about them like they’re your friends. They’re just people in a book. Old, dead, people to boot.”

 

I huffed loudly. “They’re not though, I mean, yeah they’re people in a book,” I waved the diary around as though this would help prove my point even more. “But it’s not JUST a book, is it? It’s a diary, it’s real life - it’s THEIR real life. I . . . I kinda feel like I know them after reading this.” I sank back into the pillows with a huff of disappointment. “You probably think I’m crazy, huh?”

 

Brian leaned back, rested his head against the headboard and sighed loudly. “No, I don’t think you’re crazy. I guess I feel it a little too - maybe not to the same extent as you though . . .” He winked, teasing me to try and make me smile, which sorta worked, as I felt my mouth turning up a little. 

 

“I guess I just wasn’t prepared for something like this to happen.”

 

Brian looked over my shoulder, his curiosity finally getting the better of him, he scanned the final journal entry and huffed a sigh. “I mean, we kinda knew - there was that letter from Alma with the wedding band - but . . . Shit.”

 

“Right?” I didn’t know what else to say, I was shocked. 

 

I could tell that Brian empathized with my feelings from the way he pulled me into his arms again, holding onto me more tightly than before, as we both contemplated the unfinished journal. Despite my frustration over the missing pages, I was reassured by the feeling of Brian’s now-smooth cheek rubbing against my own. The contrast between what we had and the troubles of our historic doubles had never been more stark. But just the knowledge that I’d somehow succeeded with Brian - I’d persisted and worn down his barriers and eventually uncovered the truth behind the grumpy recluse the rest of the world saw - made me more determined than ever to unearth the rest of Billy’s love story. I never could resist a puzzle. 

 

I’d solved the mystery of the Triangle Building, and I wasn’t going to give up till I discovered the resolution to Billy Carnegie’s mysterious love triangle story either. 

  
  
Chapter Music Selection -  [ Uncover by Zara Larsson ](https://youtu.be/U-PXEe-qeK4) . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7/3/19 - Do I hear an ‘Awwww!’ for that intimate shaving scene? Been planning that one from the beginning. Now we’re getting to the really good stuff. Hang on! TAG & Sally.


	33. History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you wanted to know what happened to Billy, Jay & Andrew . . . Enjoy! TAG & Sally.

  
  


Chapter 33 - History.

  
  


Despite all my finely-honed research skills, I had been unable to find out any more about what happened to Billy or Jay after Alma’s death. 

 

I’d spent the rest of Saturday afternoon at the library, going so far as to enlist the Research Librarian’s help in digging up something more on the participants of the Triangle Building Love Mystery, but neither of us found much. Billy’s entire life history came down to nothing more than that one line in his obituary about him being an avid traveler and ‘sportsman’ who never married. Jay Frick got a few sundry newspaper mentions over the years for working on his family’s business endeavors, but despite all the other members of the Frick clan being prominent in the society news of the era, those sources were mostly silent as to Jay. The Librarian found Jay’s obituary, dated January 13, 1911, but that item only vaguely recited Jay’s family connections, referred to him as a widower, and attributed his death to an automobile accident. For that matter, there wasn’t even much more that my librarian friend could find on Andrew Peebles. Peebles did return to Pittsburgh in 1887 to complete construction on the First Lutheran Church, which was consecrated a year later. But after that, there were no further records related to Peebles or any subsequent architectural projects. Peebles died in Atlantic City, New Jersey, in 1919 - presumably as one of the millions of casualties of the flu pandemic that ravaged the country at that time. There was no indication that any of the three had further contact after the events that tore them apart in 1885/1886.

 

After several hours of digging, it seemed I had exhausted all avenues of research except one. While scanning through some digitized copies of the University of Pittsburgh’s archives of Henry Clay Frick’s US Steel Business Records, I came across one reference to ‘family records’ that had been bequeathed to Pittsburgh’s Duquesne Club Alumnus Committee. It was a tenuous lead at best, but seeing as it was the only remaining avenue my inquisitive self had, I figured it was worth looking into. If there was any hope at all of uncovering the ending to the saga of Billy and Jay, it might be hidden in those fabled personal records.  

 

So, hopes high, I walked the few blocks over from the downtown library to the Club. I was in luck that the guy manning the reception desk recognized me so I didn’t have to go through the whole song and dance about being the son of a member, etc. But that’s where my luck ended. When I explained how I wanted to look at the Frick records, I was referred to the Club’s General Manager. Of course, it being late on a Saturday afternoon, the General Manager wasn’t available, but the receptionist did call down one of the assistant managers for me to speak with. This guy, however, wasn’t inclined to be helpful at all. Spencer - that was his pretentious name, can you believe it - told me that all the Frick Archives were considered private and I’d be required to get permission from one of the members of the Frick family before I’d be allowed to look at them. All my attempts to cajole Spencer into breaking that rule were rebuffed. He was very obviously NOT gay, and my attempt to flirt with him just made him even more intractible. The asshole wouldn’t even tell me who to contact or how to get ahold of them to get the permission I’d need. And when I got a little pissy about the stonewalling, Spencer told me I needed to leave, and if I didn’t he would be reporting my behavior to my father. Basically, it was a dead end delivered with an insult.

 

I left the club even more frustrated than before. It was infuriating to think that those records were just sitting there inside the building, and that the answers to my questions about what happened to Billy, Jay and the rest were probably waiting for me in those dusty old papers, but that some snooty, officious little prick was keeping me from them. Needless to say, I wasn’t in the best of moods when I returned to my Eggy’s Tower a few minutes later. Brian didn’t even need to hear the story as to why there was a storm cloud hovering over my head; he just laughed at me, got up from his desk, closed his laptop, and took me into his arms for a consolatory hug. And before I knew what was happening, he had led me to his bed and was fucking the frustration out of me. 

 

I could really get used to this supportive lover thing.

 

Afterwards, the angry all burned away by the happy post-sex endorphins, I related my research results to my bedmate. Wisely, Egbert just let me vent for a bit. “. . . I’m sure I could find what I needed pretty quickly if I could just get in there. I bet the records are kept in that basement storage room full of boxes of historical shit - the one Daphne and I found. Maybe I could go back through the tunnels . . .”

 

“No! I don’t want you fucking around in those damn tunnels, Sunshine!” Brian insisted immediately. “We don’t know that they’re safe.”

 

“They’ve held up this long, I’m sure it’s fine . . .” 

 

“NO! Damn it, Justin! I just . . . I can’t deal with the thought of you down there in the dark with all that rubble having fallen off the walls. And if you’re right, and nobody’s been down there in decades, you can’t be sure they’re safe. I don’t want you going down there again. Especially not alone,” Brian implored, rolling over while he spoke so that he was lying on top of me, pinning me to the mattress with his body and pinning me with his stare at the same time. “Please, Sunshine. Promise me you won’t go back down there. Please?”

 

Shit. What was I supposed to say? I couldn’t just blow off all his worries without feeling super guilty. And he did have a point - I hadn’t even told him about the couple of sections that looked like they’d had minor cave-ins because I worried about how much it would scare him - but even I knew it probably wasn’t smart to push my luck by hanging out in 100+ year old tunnels. Still, I didn’t want to give up on solving the Triangle Building Love Mystery - and I knew I wouldn’t be able to just forget about it. 

 

“There’s got to be some other way you can get into the Club to get those records, right?” Brian persisted, trying to persuade me to stay out of the tunnels by finding an alternative. 

 

“Maybe,” I relented a bit. “If I could just find an excuse for being at the Club, I could maybe find a way to sneak downstairs and take a peek. But short of asking my father to take me with him to the next Pittsburgh Business Alliance cocktail party, I don’t know how. And, of course, that would mean I’d have to actually spend some time with my father . . .” I finished with a shudder at that unwholesome prospect.

 

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Brian assured me.

 

And then he grabbed another one of the flavored condoms, squirmed down under the covers, rolled it down my all-of-a-sudden-interested-dick, and did this thing with his tongue that distracted me from thoughts of going anywhere for a long, long time.

  
  


After a glorious weekend - spent almost exclusively in my Egbert’s bed - I reluctantly dragged myself back to school for classes on Monday morning. It was probably a good thing that I was forced to leave the Triangle Building, though, because both me and my ass were exhausted. It seemed like, not only did my new lover not need any sleep, but he had an almost non-existent refractory period, which meant I had been kept quite busy all weekend. Don’t get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoyed myself, but I was going to have to learn to restrain Eggy a bit or he was gonna literally fuck me into an early grave. 

 

So it was understandable that I was walking a little stiffly when I straggled into the cafeteria at lunchtime, right? Was it really necessary for my friends to greet me with a round of uproarious laughter at my expense? Great friends, huh?

 

“Damn, Taylor, you look like shit warmed over,” Peter greeted me as he moved a stack of books aside to make a space for me at the table. “What the hell happened to you last weekend?”

 

“You mean ‘who’ happened to him,” Zeboria teased. “I know well-fucked when I see it, and mmhmm this boy has been fucked good and proper.”

 

“Ohhhh. Poor baby. Need me to go get you a pillow from the lounge for your ass?” Raphael asked, pretending to care about my tender nether regions by patting at my rear. 

 

“Fuck off,” I growled at all of them, plunking my bag down next to the chair and setting my lunch on the table before gingerly - very gingerly - sitting down myself. Why were these fucking chairs so damn hard anyway?

 

“Usually you’re in a better mood after you get laid,” Peter commented while shaking his head at me. “What’s putting that perpetual look of constipation on your face, my friend??”

 

“Yeah, well . . . I’ve never taken on such a BIG project before,” I replied, giving a little waggle of my eyebrows at the word ‘big’ to make the joke work.

 

The roar of laughter around me caused several heads at neighboring tables to turn our way. 

 

“Oooo! Do tell, Taylor! How BIG was it?” Raphe asked, leaning in expectantly. “Are we talking jumbo sausage style or was it more like a sad little chipolata?”

 

“Definitely more of a jumbo sausage!” I replied boastfully. “But it’s not just the size, it’s the . . . enthusiasm . . . I swear he wouldn’t let me out of the damn bed all weekend. I had to practically beg for time off to eat. And I can still feel him inside me now,” I felt myself blushing slightly, which was totally unlike me, but Brian brought out this softer side of me. 

 

That comment earned me another round of heckling and teasing as they all took additional potshots. It was all good natured, of course. We always gave each other shit about our love lives. It’s what friends do. It had just been a long time since I’d personally had anything good to offer, so they were laying it on thick. 

 

“You’re all just jealous because I got some and you didn’t,” I snarked right back at them all as soon as they ran out of comments. “Shit, when was the last time any of YOU losers actually saw any action?”

 

“I don’t know about the rest of these derps, but I got me some this weekend too,” Z bragged with a superior tilt of his head.

 

“Yeah, but poking your schlong into that goony little fiddler doesn’t count,” Raphael replied. He really didn’t like Ethan. In fact, he disliked him so much he refused to call ‘The Fiddler’ by his name. “That needy hole’s been around so much you could land a 747 in there. Seriously though, Z, I don’t get what you see in the dead ting.”

 

“Hey, Ethan’s not that bad,” Zeboria protested, although not all that strenuously, I noted. 

 

“Not as long as you keep him too busy to talk or play that freaking violin,” Peter added equitably. “I swear, one time I let him talk me into listening to him play and I thought for a second he was strangling a cat with his bow.”

 

Zeboria snorted a little laugh despite himself. “Which is why I waited till AFTER I fucked him before I told him that I couldn’t possibly go hear him play next Friday,” Z explained with a sly look. “He’s been begging me to go with him to this fancy social club he’s playing at on Friday - trying to talk up the free food and open bar - but I don’t think so.”

 

“Good call! I know you’re easy, Z, but at least you’re not THAT easy. It’s nice to think it takes more than a skank offering free food to get you into bed,” Raphe gave him shit and I laughed along. 

 

But while I was laughing, I was also thinking. I remembered Ethan talking about playing at the Duquesne Club’s Founders’ Day Gala and how I’d made fun of him for wanting to go to such a snooze-fest. But . . . It would make a great excuse to get me into the Club and, with everybody busy listening to the entertainment and rushing around to take care of the inevitable hordes of partygoers, it should be easy enough for me to sneak down to the basement to do my research. The only snag being that I’d have to cozy up to Ethan and convince him to take me as his ‘date’ for the night. Ugh!

 

Remind me again, how much did I really want to find out the ending to Billy’s story?

  
  


“How do I look?” Ethan asked for about the thousandth time, tugging on his perpetually crooked bow tie and fishing for another compliment.

 

“You look the same as the last time you asked,” I replied, failing at my attempts to rein in my natural snark. Then I reminded myself not to blow my cover as Ethan’s ‘date’ for the night. “You look fine, Ethan. Don’t worry. I’m sure nobody’s going to be paying that much attention to how you’re dressed anyway. It’s your music they care about, right?”

 

“Right,” Ethan agreed, smiling at me appreciatively. “Alright. Wish me luck. Here I go!” 

 

Before I could stop him, Ethan leaned in and kissed me right on the lips. I was too surprised to do anything so I just stood there acting like a statue. It wasn’t till Ethan headed for the stage set up at the end of the ballroom, giving a little backward wave in my direction as he went, that I shook myself, wiped the taste of him off my lips, and started to move off in the opposite direction. I might have had to pretend to be Ethan’s date for the evening in order to get into the Club, but there was no way I was sticking around to listen to him play. My acting skills weren’t THAT good. No way could I stand to listen to him without getting physically sick to my stomach, and that would definitely blow everything. 

 

I’d been right, though, that the Staff at the Club would be running so ragged doing Gala things that security would be a little lax. Both the Doorman and the Club’s Social Secretary were busy greeting guests and checking invitations at the front entrance, with their minions busy showing guests to their tables or helping at the coat check, so the reception desk was empty. I hovered in the hallway for a minute or two, dodging waiters carrying trays full of drinks, until I saw my opening, and then dashed down the hallway leading to the back staircase. Hopefully nobody had seen my escape, or if they had, they’d be too busy to care. I didn’t pass anyone between the front lobby and the door to the basement records room, so I figured I was good to go. 

 

I was thrilled to discover that the door to the storage room wasn’t locked - that would have significantly slowed me down and if I’d risked picking the lock I might have been caught - allowing me to just duck quietly inside. I switched on the lights and locked the door behind me in the hopes of preventing my discovery. The room looked the same as it had the day Daphne and I had broken in through the tunnel door. The tricky part, however, was finding the records I was looking for amid all those racks of boxes. 

 

It took me about five minutes till I found a row of boxes that seemed to correspond to the right decade and another ten minutes of pulling off box tops, rifling through piles of ancient papers and books and ledgers, till I found the Frick records. I’d almost missed them since they were segregated into four modern-looking accordion folio files, which threw me off. Luckily I’d spotted the name ‘Frick’ on the small self-adhesive label that had been affixed to the front of ‘Volume One’. But the minute I opened that first file, I knew I’d hit paydirt. 

 

 

The files were full of all sorts of personal memorabilia. Frick had kept copious family records. In the first folio there were personal letters, photos, yellowed newspaper clippings, even some old club newsletters, all sorted in chronological order. The second folio had what appeared to be legal documents, deeds of trust, marriage licences and birth and death records. The third and fourth folios even had actual journals. Jackpot!

 

I went back to the first folio, starting with the front slot of the accordion, and discovered that someone had prepared an index of the contents of all four files. Hallelujah! That would make my searches eminently easier. Using that index, I quickly sorted through the dross and found some highly enlightening documents. 

 

First I located several newspaper clippings detailing poor Alma’s demise. They didn’t reveal much more than what Billy’s journal had already told us, though. The incident where Alma had publicly accused her husband Jay of sodomy seemed to have been just as big a scandal as you’d assume. There were mentions of it in three different Pittsburgh papers, along with one smaller mention in a society rag from New York City. Then, a week later, there were new articles detailing the circumstances of poor Alma’s death and stirring up the rumors surrounding Jay and  _ ‘his alleged partner in debauchery, the young Mr. William C. Carnegie’  _ The final article I came across ended with a concluding line stating that Jay Frick was expected to relocate to New York following his wife’s funeral to take up a position working in his brother’s offices there. I snapped pictures of several of these clippings with my phone, so I could read them thoroughly at a later time, and then I moved on. 

 

Next I pulled out a sheaf of what appeared to be handwritten minutes from the meetings of the Duquesne Club Commerce Committee. I scanned through them until I came to several entries dated around the fall of 1886. Aha! This was the good stuff! 

 

I was so excited by what I’d found I just had to tell somebody, so I pulled out my phone again and tapped at the screen till I had Eggy on Facetime with me. “I think I found it, Brian! See! All our answers!” I crowed, holding up the committee minutes and flapping them in front of the camera.

 

Brian laughed at me and my enthusiasm. “I can’t see a fucking thing if you’re going to wave that shit around like that, Brat.” I rolled my eyes at him but I was too excited to really be annoyed by him. “So . . . what did you find? What happened to your Billy?”

 

“Just as we suspected - he got sent away!” I pointed to the page of minutes I’d been reading through. “See here. The Commerce Committee here at the club held a special meeting in late October of 1886. It says that Thomas Carnegie, Billy’s father, was taken ill in September - right about the time of the uproar over Billy being involved in Alma Frick’s death - and had finally succumbed to his illness as of October 19th. The minutes note that Billy would not be able to assume his father’s position because he had been sent away to ‘ _ scout potential business opportunities in the Western Territories’. _ ”

 

“Damn! That sucks for old Thomas. What a drama queen though; he’d rather die than acknowledge his son was a fag? Whatever,” Brian came to about the same conclusion I had. “Personally, though, I think Billy got off with a pretty good deal. He got to escape the family and head out west where he was allowed to do his whole ‘Sportsman and Traveller’ thing. I’m sure he was happier out there than being under the disapproving eyes of his family.”

 

“Yeah, but it explains why nothing more was heard about him. If he was shipped off to the wilds of the ‘Western Territories’ back in 1886, it’s not surprising that he never turned up in any of the social listings in Pittsburgh or New York,” I concluded as I continued to read through the rest of the Committee minutes. “Oh, hey, here’s a note about Peebles too . . . ‘ _ Mr. Andrew Carnegie motioned that the contract formerly extended to Mr. Andrew Peebles for construction of the new Clubhouse be discontinued, citing the architect’s abject moral turpitude and Mr. Peebles’ involvement in the late unpleasantness associated with the death of Mrs. Alma Frick. The motion was seconded by Mr. Brock-Hampton. After discussion, the matter was put to a vote and the motion carried unanimously.’” _

 

“Poor S.O.B. They fucking blackballed him,” Brian surmised. “No wonder Peebles didn’t get any more work in Pittsburgh. And what happened to Alma wasn’t even his fault. If Billy hadn’t fucked Andrew over for a fling with Jay, they all would have been fine. Still closeted, but fine.”

 

“Yeah, I agree. It totally sucks for Peebles,” I concurred, finishing with the Committee Meeting notes and putting them back in the file. “Basically, everyone involved was fucked over. Did I ever mention how fucking happy I am not to have lived back then? Shit, it’s hard enough being gay nowadays. I can’t even imagine dealing with the crap these guys had to go through . . .”

 

Eggy agreed with me. We continued to chat about the harsh treatment the 1886 boys had suffered as I sifted through more of the records. I found a few more tidbits here and there, mostly dealing with Jay’s work in the New York Offices of H.C. Frick & Company, and later, once the two families had formally merged their businesses, for the Carnegie Steel Company. 

 

I’d just begun to dig through some personal correspondence I found in the back of the file, when I came across one more brief mention of Jay. It was a letter to Henry Clay from none other than Andrew Carnegie dated August, 1892. I skipped over most of the parts that dealt with business stuff - including a lengthy discussion of something called the ‘Homestead Strike’ - finding a more personal discussion at the conclusion of the letter.

 

“Listen to this,” I announced and read the rest of the passage aloud to Brian. “ _ ‘I am disappointed and dismayed at your handling of this matter, Frick. I know we’ve had our share of difficulties over the years, but we have always managed to put on a united front. Even with that business with your Mary Ann brother and my nephew, which was messy as hell, we were able to work together to quash the ensuing scandal for our two families and have since managed to keep the little catamites separated. However, I can not condone your reckless practices with regard to our current business interests. If you are incapable of handling matters better, I will have you banished along with your degenerate brother to the bowels of the New York office . . .” _

 

I hadn’t had time to finish reading the passage before I heard voices out in the corridor and then someone began to rattle at the doorknob. I looked at the clock on my phone and realized I’d been down here far longer than I’d planned. Shit. I hastily began to stuff the documents I’d pulled out back into the file, intending to try and hide my mischief as best as I could, but hadn’t managed to clean it all up when the door to the storage room literally crashed open.

 

I turned to look and discovered that whoever wanted in hadn’t bothered to find a key to the door; they’d apparently just kicked it in, as evidenced by the splintering and cracking of the wood around the door jamb. But the force with which the door had been rammed had backfired and the door had immediately swung closed again after it crashed into the wall behind. Which gave me just enough time to spin around so I was looking at the entryway face-on when the invaders came all the way in.

 

“There you are! What the hell are you doing down here, skulking in the damn basement?” a drunken and visibly angry Craig Taylor screamed at me. 

  
  


**********

Chapter Music Selection -  [ History by One Direction ](https://youtu.be/yjmp8CoZBIo) .   [ Homestead Strike & Massacre ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Homestead_strike) . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dontcha just love cliffhanger endings? Bwahahahaha! And now, I’m afraid, we are going to take a little break and go on hiatus for six months or so while you all stew about the resolution . . . Hahaha! Just kidding! Don’t worry, we’ve got a plan to get you down off that cliff pretty soon. In fact the big, dramatic ending is almost finished as well. We just need to put the final touches on in to make it perfect. So, enjoy the anticipation while we craft a spectacular climax for you... (pun intended). BTW, HC Frick really was responsible for the Homestead Massacre - a strike of Pittsburgh area steel workers which turned deadly and later became the basis for modern US Labor Laws. If you want to read about it, check out the link at the end of the chapter. Historians blame the circumstances surrounding that strike for the onset of the ongoing tension between Andrew Carnegie and HC Frick, but our readers know that the real source of conflict was the illicit love affair between Billy and Jay. Right? *Wink* TAG & Sally.


	34. When The Deed Is Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready for the big one? Here we go... Enjoy! TAG & Sally

 

Chapter 34 - When The Deed Is Done.

  
  
  


“Dad? What the hell . . .” My father was the absolute LAST person I had expected to see.

 

“You think you can just come to MY Club and embarrass me by showing off all your faggy ways and get away with it? . . .” Craig continued to rant, not even really acknowledging my question. He pointed over his shoulder with the hand holding his highball glass and, in the process, sloshed the liquor all over himself, but he was apparently too drunk to care. Behind my father I could just barely see the ashen face of my ‘date’ for the night, Ethan. “I saw you, you know,” he slurred. “I SAW what you did! You’re disgusting. Kissing this other fucking pansy here. And, what’s even worse, all my friends and business associates saw you too, damn it! Do you KNOW how fucking humiliating that is? It’s bad enough I have to live with the fact that my son is a damned butthole ranger, but now you’re going to flaunt your sexual deviancy in the faces of all my friends? Fuck you, Justin! FUCK you!” 

 

Okay, so Dad was more than three sheets to the wind and on a total tear. Not that this was a new experience for me - I grew up dealing with his random drunken nights where he would come home from the Club and talk to my mom like a piece of shit. But this was definitely not something I wanted to deal with right then. Especially not with Ethan looking on. 

 

“Dad, I think you’ve had a little too much to drink. We should probably get you home,” I said in my best calming voice. “You’re going to regret breaking that door when you get the bill from the Club in the morning, you know.”

 

“Fuck that! And don’t you dare try to ‘manage’ me, you fucking little fairy. If anyone needs to leave this Club it’s YOU! We don’t need your type around here. So take your little fuck buddy and get the hell out of MY Club before anyone else sees you and realizes I’m related to such trash!”

 

Yeah . . . So much for trying to reason with my drunken, homophobic, asshole of a father, right? I mean, a guy can only take so much. I’d known how much he hated my being gay from the moment I came out to him and mom, so the slurs against my sexuality were kinda expected. What I couldn’t take was the nastiness with which they were being delivered. Or the way he was basically trying to force me to hide myself and hide the fact that I was gay. I wasn’t going back into the closet for an ignorant bigot like Craig Taylor - especially not so he could save his reputation with his equally bigotted buddies. So, despite my best intentions of trying to help Craig get out of the Club without any more of an uproar, I kinda lost it at that point.

 

“You know what? Fuck YOU, Craig!” I yelled back at him, stepping forward to get right in his face. “I couldn’t care less if you or your snobbish friends are offended by my kissing another guy. It’s the 21st Century for fuck sake; get over your neanderthal prejudices already! I’m GAY, Craig! YOUR SON IS GAY! And I’ll always BE gay, so hiding me from your friends isn’t going to help. Hell, if anyone is an embarrassment here, it’s you, prancing around here, drunk out of your fucking mind, breaking down doors and screaming out your bigoted bullshit!”

 

I stood there, chest to chest with the sad, old, bastard that was my father, and stared him defiantly in the eye. I was so done taking his shit. I was done with hiding myself so HE wouldn’t be embarrassed by me. I was tired of him being the embarrassment. And I was done listening passively to his constant denigration. For the moment, I’d even forgotten that he still held the purse strings to my education trust fund. I was just so sick and tired of dealing with his prejudices and I wasn’t backing down again.

 

Unfortunately, I’d also sorta forgotten just what a bad idea it was to have a face-off with an irrational drunk. 

 

Craig returned my stare for about thirty seconds, getting redder in the face the entire time, that vein in his left temple enlarging and throbbing, faster and faster as his temper took over. He was literally snorting with anger, his breathing becoming more rapid but having no outlet other than his widely flaring nostrils since his mouth was puckered up in an ugly frown. Out of nowhere, the image of an angry cartoon bull popped into my head and I snickered at the comparison. 

 

I realized a second later that my laughing was probably a mistake.

 

My little huff of laughter was the last straw for Craig. He furiously smashed his now almost empty whisky glass to the concrete floor, causing shards of glass to fly everywhere. Then Craig lunged at me, wrapping both his newly freed hands around my throat so he could shake me and strangle me at the same time. I tried to pry his fingers away but I was no match for his insane and drunken strength. Worse still, as he was shaking me, the impetus of his movement carried us both along until my back was up against a section of the shelving, and each subsequent shake he delivered caused my head to crack painfully against the rough metal edge behind me. I tried to fight him off but I wasn’t very effective; he had sixty pounds on me and his righteous fury gave him the advantage. My few efforts to punch or kick him in an attempt to defend myself only seemed to make Craig more angry. As my oxygen levels began to dwindle, I focused on the face I could still see standing in the doorway beyond Craig’s shoulder, but Ethan seemed frozen in place and either unable or unwilling to help me. 

 

I don’t know how long the struggle with Craig lasted. It felt like it went on forever. It could have been only a few minutes, or it could have been hours. Time ceased to make any sense as he shook me and knocked my body against the shelving while slowly choking me. I fought back as best I could, ineffectually hitting him or kicking at his shins. Nothing seemed to penetrate the violent madness I saw stabbing out at me from the once familiar eyes of the man who was supposed to be my father. Meanwhile, the pain in my head was making me dizzy. My sense of hearing had become disconnected and all the sounds around me felt distant and delayed, causing me even more confusion. Then the lights of the storage room began to dim and my vision tunneled so that I could no longer see anything outside the fisheye lens version of my father’s looming face as he attempted to kill me for the sin of being gay.

 

Just when I was about to pass out completely, I saw this blur of motion coming up from my left. Suddenly Craig was gone and there was nothing holding me up, so I began to collapse towards the floor. Something, or rather someone, caught me just before I hit the cold, hard concrete. I felt two strong arms hoisting me back up to my feet as I gasped for air like a fish out of water. I clung to the tall, sturdy body wrapping itself around me. All I could do was breathe and try not to fall completely apart as I dazedly held fast to the only support I had.

 

My vision was still sort of wonky, and what I could see was clouded by the tears that had sprung up unwanted, so I wasn’t entirely sure what came next. It seemed like everything was happening at once. My hearing returned just as a roar of rage erupted from somewhere on my right. The next thing I knew, whoever had been holding me up was gone. I teetered on my unsteady legs, eventually sliding down the wall of shelving behind me till I was slumped in a heap on the floor. 

 

Meanwhile, in front of me, my father and Brian were duking it out in what looked like an all-out death match. Ethan The Impotent had scooted around the combatants, who were taking up much of the middle of the room, to come to my side; I tried to bat away his overly-solicitous pawing but it felt like I was fighting off an octopus. And, to make the chaos even more perfect, right at that moment our tiny room was unexpectedly filled with what felt like about a hundred maroon-vested Club staffers, all of whom were shouting and bumbling around doing fuck all, but mostly getting in the way. 

 

When one of the Club guys came over and started groping at me along with Ethan, I figured I’d had enough. I punched someone - not sure who, but I think it was maybe Ethan judging by his later reaction - and freed myself from the concerned caregivers trying to hold me down. It took a bit of effort, but I managed to struggle to my feet, only to find that the staffers had already pulled Brian and my dad apart and were holding them on separate sides of the room. A quick scan of both of them reassured me that my father had clearly got the worst of the fight; he was slumped on a pile of boxes, blood dripping down onto his dress shirt from a large gash over his left eye and the corner of his mouth was torn and swollen. Brian, on the other hand, was still on his feet, still struggling to free himself from those attempting to hold him back, and the only visible blood on him was that decorating his clenched fists. 

 

I waded through the sea of officious do-gooders to get to Brian. He didn’t seem to see me at first, he was so focused on his foe across the room, but that didn’t stop me from wrapping my arms around his waist and just holding on for dear life. Eventually, my presence seemed to penetrate the fog of fury surrounding him. I saw him blink and shake his head a little, as if trying to clear away the confusion, then he looked down at me and smiled as if nothing else around us mattered. I beamed my best Sunshine grin back at him and my Eggy gently returned my embrace. For that one moment of peace, it was like we were all alone in that tiny room and none of the surrounding pandemonium could touch us. It was too good to last though.

 

“Justin. Justin! Talk to me. Are you okay?” The annoying twang of Ethan’s voice as he continued to pull at my arms finally broke through the bliss of my reunion with Egbert. “Shit! I thought your dad was going to kill you. When he came over and asked me where you were, I never thought he’d try and kill you. I just thought . . . I didn’t know why you’d snuck off without me and I was kinda pissed at you for missing my performance, but I swear I didn’t know he’d go batshit crazy like this when I told him which way you’d gone. He just blew up at me . . . I’m so sorry, Justin . . . Fuck, you’re still bleeding. You need to come sit down. We should call a doctor to check you out . . .”

 

Brian had distractedly resisted all of Ethan’s attempts to get me away from him but the mention of me bleeding seemed to finally wake him up. I thought at first he would recoil, what with the whole OCD germaphobe thing, but no. Instead, Brian’s hand came up to the back of my head, tenderly examining with his fingers to see how bad the cuts to my scalp were, and then pulling his bloodied hand away with a renewed glint of anger. But, rather than relinquish me to the importunate Ethan, Brian bent down, scooped me up into his arms and turned as if to head out the gaping door leading out into the tunnels. 

 

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going with my son!” Craig bellowed, lurching up off his pile of boxes and moving so as to block Brian’s escape. I was impressed with the fact that he was even able to still function considering how beat up he still was, not to mention that his drunk had only got drunker. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, Buddy, but you’re not taking my faggot son anywhere until I get some answers.” Craig turned his attention down on me with that familiar disdainful sneer. “You never answered me, Justin. I asked what the hell you were doing down here. The Club staff told me you were asking around last week about rifling through these records, but they told you to get lost. So what? Now you’re sneaking around without permission anyway? That’s just like you; a spoiled brat. You always were a fucking disappointment - and not just because you’re a pathetic little fairy who can’t stand up for himself. I see you found yourself a defender though. Should have known . . . What with you flaunting your ass around and making goo-goo eyes at every queer in the City . . . Embarrassing me all over again, just like you did at the damned Christmas party . . . Figures you’d eventually find an even bigger fag than yourself to fight your battles for you.”

 

Okay, still bleeding and shaky after having been practically killed, or not, I wasn’t putting up with any more shit from the likes of Craig Taylor. 

 

“Put me down, Brian,” I directed, and he reluctantly obeyed, but remained standing like a bulwark at my back, holding me up and supporting me with his hulking presence. Which gave me the confidence to stand up to Craig again. “Fuck. You. Craig! You don’t get to tell me I’m the one in the wrong after you just attempted to murder your own son. What I’m doing and who I do it with are no longer any of your fucking business. I’m through with you. And, for the last time, I’m gay - that’s NOT going to change no matter how much you claim it embarrasses you - so get over yourself already, you fucking troglodyte!” 

 

I started to turn away from him, now that I’d had my say, but apparently he wasn’t through with me. “Not so fast, boy!” Craig grabbed my shoulder and wrenched me around till I was facing him again. “You don’t get to disrespect me like that and then just walk away. I’m still the head of this family and you’ll either do as I say - which includes not shaming the Taylor name with your disgusting, perverted lifestyle - or I’ll cut you off completely. I’ll disinherit you. And then you can say goodbye to your fairy art school and your mooching faggot friends and everything else MY money buys you. What do you say to that, you fucking pansy?”

 

And there it was. The ultimate WASP threat. Do what I say - behave the way I dictate - or I’ll take away the money. I’m sure that was pretty much the same argument the Carnegie family used on poor Billy when they sent him off to the wilds of the Western Territories all those years ago. Only I wasn’t some scared little faggot like Billy and this wasn’t 1886. I wasn’t going to hide myself. I wasn’t going back in the closet to please my father or anyone else. Fuck it all! They couldn’t change me and they won’t hide me. I refuse to be silenced. 

 

“No,” I replied, my voice steady and strong despite the way my body was shaking.

 

“What did you say?” Craig bristled, as if he couldn’t believe that anyone would defy him.

 

“I said, ‘No’. I’m not going to hide myself or pretend to be something I’m not just so you can pretend to have a ‘normal’ son. I won’t do it,” I maintained stubbornly.

 

Craig seemed honestly surprised by my rebelliousness and for half a second I thought maybe he’d back down. But then he seemed to find his resolve and snarled back at me. “Fine! If that’s what you want, so be it. But that’s it, Justin. I’ve had it. You either leave off all this ‘gay shit’, and come home with me right now, or you never come home again!”

 

I paused and mulled over his ultimatum but still couldn’t see any way I’d be able to live the pretence he expected of me. So my answer was clear. “Never again,” I said, my voice a little shaky from the emotion of it all, but my resolve as solid as ever. “Did you hear me? I said, NEVER AGAIN!” Craig looked shocked that I’d choose my morals over his money, but what had I expected? “Go! Get the fuck out of here! Go on, Craig!” I screamed at him, now in almost as big a rage as he’d been in earlier. “I’m never coming home again. Never fucking again!”

 

“Justin, stop,” Brian cautioned, his arms cinching more tightly around my waist and his face coming down to nuzzle at my ear. “He’s not worth it. Let’s just get the fuck out of here and go home.”

 

I nodded wordlessly. Brian reached down, slid an arm under my knees, and hefted me back up into a cradle hold. Then, without another word, he turned back to the tunnel door, snatched up my phone from the ledge where it had still been broadcasting the facetime call to Brian’s computer, and carried me out of the whirling chaos of the tiny storage room. I could hear Ethan calling my name but then someone closed the door behind us and it was silent and dark and we were all alone once more.

  
  


I truthfully don’t remember how we made it back to the Triangle Building. I vaguely remember holding up my phone in flashlight mode to light our way while Brian mostly carried me over and around all the obstacles and corners until we made it safely back to his apartment. I felt disconnected from it all. I didn’t completely come back to myself until I felt the water from Brian’s shower pelting down on my skin from above. And damn that felt good. Washing away all the dirt and blood and anger and fear. Even the slight sting from the shampoo when Brian began to wash my hair felt good as I knew it meant he was cleaning away the stain of that horrible scene. I looked down and saw that the water pouring off me was tinged with red and, as much as I didn’t want to, I tried to push Brian away. There was blood - lots of it - and as out of it as I was, I still knew to protect him from touching it more than he already had. 

 

“I can do it,” I protested, shoving at his hands as I pushed myself away from his supportive body - which I hadn’t realized I’d needed until it was too late. My body swayed and I could feel my legs shaking beneath me. 

 

“Stop it, Justin.” Brian’s voice was stern, yet strangely soothing, as he pulled me back into his arms. “Let me wash you, for fuck sake. You’re covered in all kinds of disgusting blood and shit from the tunnel and who knows what else.”

 

I tried to pull away again, but he held me tighter. 

 

“But I’m bleeding. It’s getting all over you,” I said weakly. 

 

“I know,” Brian sighed loudly. “Just let me do this, okay? The water from the shower is rinsing it all away. I’m fine.”

 

I nodded, which only made me feel dizzier than before. So I scrunched my eyes shut and wrapped my arms tighter around his waist as he worked at cleaning me up. But it was his purring baritone words that seemed to hold me up more than anything else.

 

“I’m so fucking proud of you, Justin. The way you handled your dad . . . The way you stood up for yourself like that. I’m really fucking proud.”

 

That’s when it hit me. What my father had said to me - the ultimatum he’d given me - and I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. It was a weird feeling; I had stopped loving my father a while ago, but hearing him talking to me like I meant absolutely fucking nothing to him, it had hurt like hell. I hadn’t been prepared for that. I felt like a wuss for crying. Logically, I knew I was better off without him, so why was it affecting me so much. 

 

“Shhh, it’s okay. You’re okay, Justin. He’s not worth it.”

 

“I . . . I know. I don’t know why I’m crying about it.”

 

“Because he’s your dad and you still love him.”

 

I shook my head as I sobbed. “No, I don’t. I hate him. I fucking hate him so much . . .”

 

Brian nuzzled my cheek as he rubbed soothing circles on my back. “No you don’t. You think you hate him. But you don’t.”

 

“No,” I could feel the hate boiling up inside of me again. “I really do hate him, Brian. How can you even think that I don’t. After what he just did? What he said?”

 

“You hate what he’s become . . . and I get that. You SHOULD hate that man. He’s a disgusting bigot and doesn’t deserve your love. But . . .” He was silent for a moment as though he was thinking carefully about what he wanted to say. “He hasn’t always been like that, right? I bet you have good memories of him from when you were a kid - and that’s the Justin that’s crying. The Justin that looked up to the man who protected him from whatever shit you were scared of as a kid. That’s the Justin who’s hurt. It’s okay for THAT Justin to cry over what he’s lost.”

 

Eggy’s reasoning made sense. Until I was a teenager, Craig had been a great dad. My father would chase the monsters I had imagined out of my room when I was little and, when I was a bit older, I would go to work with him and sit in his office doing my homework. Those times together were something we both looked forward to. When I was younger, he was always boasting to his friends about how smart I was, how I was going to do great things with my life, and I guess any kid would love that sort of attention. 

 

“Yeah, I guess.” I sniffled loudly. 

 

“It’s like . . . With Donal . . . *sigh* . . . I hate that man with everything in me. I hate what he did to me. He was a piece of shit. He was a nasty bully who took advantage of a young kid when I had no one else . . . But he wasn’t always like that. Not to that extent anyway . . . When I first came to live here, and my Aunt was still alive, he’d take me to the park to play soccer. He would stand there proudly and watch me as I had a kick around with some of the other boys . . . Unfortunately, those happy moments didn’t last very long. And yet, by the time he died . . . I wanted nothing more than to celebrate. I was free from him. Free from his controlling bullshit. But as much as I wanted to be happy, part of me was still fucking sad that he died, you know? I didn’t WANT to be sad for him. I hated him. But I guess nine year old Brian popped into my brain and, for a while at least, made me forget all that messed up shit he put me through . . . So, what I’m trying to say, Justin, is . . . It’s okay to grieve what you had. It doesn’t make the hate you feel for him now any less valid.”

 

See, Brian got me. He understood exactly how I was feeling at that moment. I didn’t care I had lost Craig; we hadn’t been close ever since I came out. But, I couldn’t forget all those wonderful memories I still had from when I was a kid. 

 

“Thank you, Brian.” I shivered under the cooling shower water. 

 

“Come on, let’s get you out of here. You’re as clean as I can get you. Which is saying a lot, you know, because NOBODY knows how to clean better than me,” he joked and I smiled even though I didn’t feel like laughing quite yet.

 

I followed him out of the shower, walking straight into his arms, where he wrapped me in his largest, fluffiest towel and pulled me into the bedroom. 

 

“Lay down,” he ordered, pointing to the bed. 

 

I did as I was told and watched as he wrapped his own towel tighter around his waist. Then he walked towards me, pulled my towel off, and proceeded to crawl up the bed until he was kneeling above me, his own longer legs straddling my thighs. I felt small with him perched over me like that, but it was a comfortable smallness; like, I knew I’d be okay, because my smallness meant his largeness could contain me. For once it was okay for me to be small, and scared and in need of protection.

 

“Hi,” I smiled up shyly into his dark hazel eyes.

 

He returned the smile. 

 

“Other than your head, do you hurt anywhere else?” Brian asked softly. “Do these hurt?” His fingers had found their way to my neck and were stroking softly at the obvious bruises that had been left there by Craig’s fingers. 

 

I nodded gently, not wanting him to stop what he was doing. “Yeah. A little.”

 

As soon as I said that, he took his fingers away, and I heard myself moan in protest. But I needn’t have worried because his lips soon replaced them. For about half a second I contemplated asking him, teasingly, if he was gonna kiss ALL my booboos better. Then I told myself not to be a complete moron, because of course I didn’t want him to STOP kissing me - I never wanted him to stop kissing me - and I forced myself to just keep my fucking mouth shut. Which was a smart idea because, luckily, the kissing didn’t stop at the bruises on my throat. Instead, my personal Florence Nightingale continued on, his lips leaving gentle caresses all down my neck, over my chest, along the line from my sternum to my navel, and beyond. I was a little disappointed when they took a detour just before they reached the good stuff, but the kisses trailing sideways over the thin skin covering my hip and then down one of my thighs almost made up for it, and I was in no real hurry. 

 

But then everything went to hell again when the lips reached about calf level. “What the . . . ? Brian’s head popped up and he started to run his hands over my leg. “Oww!” He held up his finger so I could see the welling drop of blood at the tip. 

 

“What the hell?” 

 

I sat up so I could better see what was going on and noticed the smattering of small, angry wounds dotted all over my left ankle and calf. I hadn’t noticed those injuries until just then - I’d been too focused on the more serious and painful wounds to my head and neck. Now that it had been brought to my attention, though, the previously dull throbbing in that area became much more insistent. 

 

Brian, who was hunched over so he could inspect the area more carefully, reached down and carefully plucked something out of one of those tiny gashes, holding whatever he’d found up to the light. “It looks like glass. How’d you get glass in your leg?”

 

I thought back to the altercation with Craig. It was all a little hazy - fear, adrenaline and getting your head bashed into the wall will do that to you - but I distinctly remembered when Craig had dropped his glass tumbler to the floor and it had shattered into a million pieces. I hadn’t felt anything when it happened, probably because I was too busy trying to peel his fingers off from around my neck, but now it definitely hurt. 

 

“Craig dropped his whiskey glass,” I explained to Nurse Egbert, hissing loudly as he plucked another small piece of glass from my leg, this time with a pair of tweezers he kept in his bedside drawer - I wasn’t entirely sure what he used them for, as my hairy lover was . . . you know . . . always incredibly hairy, but they did come in handy this once, so yay. 

 

“Stay still,” Brian ordered brusquely before he proceeded to inspect and prod and tweez at my ankle for another ten painful minutes. “Shit, that’s quite a bit of shrapnel in there, but I think I got it all. Fucking snobs and their expensive leaded crystal stemware - that shit will cut through clothing, not to mention skin, like it was butter. Hang on a sec longer and I’ll bandage that for you.” 

 

And before I could protest or tell him that I didn’t think the small cuts, despite their multiplicity, needed a full-on bandage, he was gone. A minute later he was back with the most extensive first-aid kit I’d ever seen. It was the size of a small piece of luggage. I mean, hell, this guy was ready for the apocalypse or something. I’m pretty sure most hospitals aren’t that well-equipped. I didn’t say anything, though, because I didn’t want to interrupt my knight in shining armor as he ministered to me.

 

“There, I think that should take care of it,” Brian concluded as he applied the last piece of surgical tape and sat back to survey his work, nodding his head in approval. 

 

“Thank you for taking such good care of me,” I told him, smiling at him sincerely. 

 

I watched as he shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, never meeting my eye, and then began to put all his supplies back away in the first-aid kit. 

 

“I mean it, Brian. Thank you,” I reached out with one hand to stop his fussing, hoping he’d look in my eyes and know how much I meant my gratitude.

 

Brian cleared his throat nervously, stubbornly refusing to make any sort of eye contact at all. My man really didn’t like it when I showered him with praise. He was so cute when he played bashful, although nowadays he didn’t have that bushy beard to hide behind so I could see him even when he wanted to hide.

 

“Well, good . . . So, um . . . Now that you’re all taken care of . . .” he said, stumbling slightly over his words. “How ‘bout you take care of me?” 

 

I looked up at him quickly, I wasn’t sure what he was trying to say - and he wasn’t making it easy as he was still refusing to look at me - but why would Brian need taken care of? Had he been injured in the fight with my dad? I felt terrible that I’d been so worried about myself I hadn’t even thought to ask if HE was okay. I can be such an ass sometimes.

 

“Of course, Brian. I’m sorry about my father. I never meant for you to get in the middle of all that. I’ll never forgive him for hurting you. Just let me check you over. Lay down,” I smiled, moving out from the center of the mattress so there was room for him to lie down in my place. 

 

“No, it’s not that . . . I’m not hurt,” Eggy cleared his throat nervously, making me so fucking confused. 

 

“Okaay . . .”

 

I was thoroughly perplexed. If he wasn’t hurt, why did he need me to take care of him? Then I watched as Brian stood up, pulled his towel off, and exposed his beautiful body to me. His dick was right at eye level and I wanted nothing more than to take him into my mouth then and there. But before I could even touch him, he’d moved around me and flopped down on the bed, rolling over onto his front and burying his face in his folded arms with his bare ass on display, ever so slightly wiggling as though it was trying to get my attention. 

 

By the time I managed to tear my eyes away from his glorious ass, I noticed he’d somehow managed to locate a condom and was now holding it out to me - his head still resting heavily on his arms so that he wasn’t looking at me - waving that little foil packet in the air like a flag. Even then it took me a full sixty seconds before I figured out what he was asking for. And when I did cotton on, holy fucking shit, I couldn’t believe that was what he wanted. Was he actually suggesting that he wanted me to fuck him? Was that really what he was asking me to do? I was in shock. Brian giving up control like that hadn’t even been on my radar. Especially not when we’d only just reached the fucking stage a few days before. But, even though I was surprised and a little unsure, I sure as hell wasn’t gonna wait around and let a good thing like that pass me by.

 

I snatched the packet out of his hand and rolled it on as fast as I could without causing myself any serious damage. I grabbed the good lube off the nightstand and climbed onto the bed next to my man. And then I kinda froze because . . . Well, because this was big. This was really big. Huge even. And serious. And I needed to do this right. For both of us. 

 

I ran my left hand lightly down his back, outlining his spine with the tips of my fingers, and enjoying the way his muscles rippled under my touch. When I got to his glutes, I could feel him tensing up, so I stopped, letting my hand linger, just cupping the rounded edge of him with my palm until his cold skin warmed to match my own body temperature. When I felt him relaxing again, I let my hand drift over to his other buttock so my right hand could join in on the fun. At the same time I repositioned myself so I could settle on the bed between his thighs, using my knees to spread his legs wider until I had room to proceed. My kneading thumbs eventually drifted low enough to tease apart the softly fuzzed cheeks, revealing a perfectly star-shaped knot. Making use of the lube, I went to work, gently prying, intent on untying that protective knot. Working at it. Worrying it. Jimmying at the locked opening. Hell, by that point I wanted to get inside him so bad I didn’t care what I had to do to accomplish the feat. If I had to fucking break in, so be it. Brian didn’t call me his Burglar for nothing. And while all this was going through my mind, I was also thinking to myself how glad I was that nobody could hear my mental commentary on what I was doing, because that much purple prose was just pathetic. Whatever. 

 

“Hey, Romeo? I think that’s probably good enough,” Brian’s sultry voice broke into my inner monologue - thank fuck - and reminded me to focus. “I know it’s been awhile, but I’m not exactly a virgin, you know. I’m not gonna break or anything. So, if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

 

“Right. Sorry. I got a little distracted,” I muttered.

 

“I could tell,” he smirked - and I don’t know how I knew he was smirking, cuz I still couldn’t see his face, but I just KNEW he was smirking at me, you know?

 

“Moving on,” I declared. 

 

After which things just seemed to flow more smoothly. I grabbed a pillow and shoved it under his hips, stretched myself out so I was in the right position, and used one hand to align myself, before slowly, carefully but confidently, pushing against the restricting twist of muscles. After a heartbeat of resistance, they finally gave enough to let me slide in. 

 

And there it was. I was doing it. I was inside my formerly-hairy hermit. I was fucking Brian! Shit! I could hardly believe it was happening. I was seriously the luckiest SOB on the fucking planet because I was getting to fuck the most gorgeous man who’d ever lived! Look at me go! I felt like Superman or something. I was INVINCIBLE! Fuck my father! Fuck all homophobes ever! Fuck the world! Nothing else would ever matter now that I had this! 

 

“You can go ahead and move now, Sunshine,” Brian’s voice directed, breaking into my elation.

 

“Oh, yeah . . . Well, here goes nothing,” I mumbled to myself as I started moving.

 

Once I really got going it was even better. I mean, I’m not one to brag, but . . . Oh, who am I kidding, I love to brag . . . It was AMAZING. I may have had more experience at bottoming, but I was one fucking fantastic top, too. I had my usually reserved Stylite moaning and writhing and . . . Well, you get the idea. Plus, Brian and I just meshed, you know? So, when he finally came and we both collapsed into a soggy, sweaty, sated heap, I don’t think I’d ever felt more elated in my entire life.

 

So, yeah, that happened. 

 

I’d also, for those few precious moments, forgotten completely about the Club, my father, my injuries, and even the fact that I was now a penniless, disinherited, soon-to-be-former art student, with no future prospects whatsoever. Which, now that I thought about it, had probably been Brian’s intent all along. At least, I HAD forgotten until the way we’d landed, laying on our sides with our legs tangled together, put too much pressure against my cut up ankle, and then it all came back to me in a rush. Welcome to my emotional roller coaster, folks. I went from the high of making love to my wonderful, caring boyfriend, to utter desolation in sixty seconds flat. 

 

“Sshhhh. It’s okay. You’re gonna be fine,” I heard Brian crooning in my ear, not even realizing until he said something that I’d been sobbing. “We’re both gonna be just fine. We’ll fix this. We can do anything together, Sunshine. Right? Come on. I mean, hell, if you can fix me - get me to the point, after just a few weeks, where I not only left the building for the first time in a decade, but feel semi-sorta-not-totally freaked out sitting here in bed with cum smeared all over me - you can do anything, Brat.”

 

I snorted through my tears and just held onto him tighter. “I guess. I mean, I even got you to like snuggling.”

 

“Yeah . . . No. This isn’t snuggling. This is comforting a sad twink. I still don’t snuggle.”

 

“Riiiiiight,” I kidded him. 

 

And then I snuggled even closer to him and we fell asleep.

 

**********  
  
  
Chapter Music Selection - [When The Deed Is Done by Unsonic](https://youtu.be/G39_pAPVAgI). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7/10/19 - Climax! WooHoo! How was it for you? *wink* TAG & Sally.


	35. Happy Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready for a HEA? Enjoy! And thanks for reading. TAG & Sally.

  
  


Chapter 35 - Happy Ending.

  
  


I awoke, who knew how many hours later, being rolled to the side as the bed sheet covering the mattress was slowly tugged out from under me. 

 

I blinked around me in the dimness, which was only barely alleviated by the light spilling out through the open bathroom door. There was a dark, hulking figure looming at the foot of the bed. It was that shadowy creature who was trying to take away the sheets while I was sleeping on them.

 

“Eggy? What are you doing?” I rasped, my voice thick with sleep.

 

“Nothing. Just go back to sleep . . .” he replied as he continued pulling at the sheet.

 

“Egbert . . .”

 

He stopped pulling and sighed. “I couldn’t sleep. The sheets are all dirty. I didn’t have a condom on the last time and, well, I just can’t sleep on them like that,” he confessed. And if I could actually see his face in the dark, I was sure I’d see him blushing, since I could hear it in his voice. “I was trying to do it without waking you up, though.”

 

“Oh you silly, sweet, ridiculous man,” I laughed, rolling out of the bed to help him change the sheets. “I don’t mind you waking me up, you derp. Come on. I’ll help you clean up and then it’ll be done faster.”

 

So we changed the sheets. And we started a load of dirty laundry. And I watched as Eggy disinfected the nightstands and the lube bottle and everything else that might have come into contact with any trace of cum. And then we both took a shower, because there was dried cum all over both of us as well. But then Eggy started to scrub at the counters in the bathroom too, and I had to put my foot down or we would have been up all night cleaning every surface in the damned six story tall building. I realized it was just Brian’s reaction to having given up control to me in that last round of love making - I mean, I totally get that, right - but I was too tired just then to deal with it. So, I forcibly took the bottle of spray cleaner out of his hands, put it away under the counter where it belonged, and led him back to the freshly made up bed. I could tell he was still too restless to sleep, though, so I went with a distraction kiss attack. 

 

“There. Feel better?” I asked when we finally came up for air a few minutes later.

 

“Definitely,” he chuckled and pulled me closer into the enveloping circle of his arms.

 

I relaxed and let my head fall onto his shoulder, fitting myself into the hollow there that seemed perfectly shaped to the size of my skull, and let my fingers play across the skin of his chest. Damn it felt good to be there. To just lie there together like that, quiet and peaceful and calm. After all the hullabaloo of the previous night, I needed that sense of serenity. Although, just acknowledging the fact that I needed some peace brought to mind my troubles again and kinda destroyed the moment. Damn my overactive mind. Sometimes I wish it came with an off switch.

 

“Brian?”

 

“Hmmm?”

 

“I never thanked you for coming to get me and saving me from my dad,” I ventured quietly. “That was pretty amazing, by the way.”

 

I could feel the shoulder under my head shrugging. And, after a long pause, he added, “We were talking and then I saw him kick the door in and start screaming at you and . . . I had the most vivid flashback to this one time when Donal did the same thing, you know? I had been hiding from him in my room - I don’t even remember what it was I’d done wrong, but I knew he’d be coming after me - and he kicked the door in just like Craig did. Then Donal pulled me out of the room by my fucking hair. It hurt like hell. I think I had a bald spot there for about a month afterwards. Anyway, Donal was stinking drunk . . . why is it that drunk men are always stronger than they would be sober?” I shrugged but didn’t speak because I didn’t want to interrupt his narrative. “Yeah, it was . . . It was bad . . .”

 

“I’m sorry you had to live like that, Brian.”

 

He bent his neck so he could reach my temple with a kiss. “It was a long, long time ago, Sunshine.” I squeezed his waist in reply, which seemed to be just the support he needed to continue. “But I just couldn’t let the same thing happen to you. I couldn’t . . . I didn’t even really think about it. I just knew I had to come get you.”

 

“Why’d you come through the tunnels, though?” I had been curious about that. “I thought you hated the very thought of them.”

 

“I do. But I guess I hate the idea of going out into the street more,” he explained. “I’d been up in my office while we were facetiming but the second your dad broke into the room and came after you, I took off, running down the stairs so fast it’s a miracle I didn’t trip and break my neck. But when I came to the lobby door, I just COULDN’T open it. I couldn’t make my hand even touch the lock to turn it. I knew I didn’t have time to waste, though, because every second I fucked around was another second your dad could hurt you. Which is when I thought about the tunnels. At the moment, that just seemed like the lesser of two evils. So I just did it.”

 

“And I’m thankful you did. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, I don’t know what would have happened. I was about to pass out. Meanwhile, that idiot Ethan was just standing there watching as my father strangled me. Fucker.”

 

“That little pissant was your fucking date?” Brian scoffed. “He looked even more pathetic up close than he had that time I saw him through the window.”

 

“Yeah, you’re not wrong about the pathetic part.”

 

“So, then, what’s this your father said about you kissing him?” Brian pried, a distinct edge of jealousy evident in his voice. “I didn’t hear that wrong, did I? You actually kissed that curly haired greaseball?”

 

I huffed and shook my head. “It wasn’t a ‘kiss’ kiss; it was just Ethan being an ass. Besides, I didn’t kiss him - he kissed me. Trust me, kissing Ethan is the last thing I ever want to do again.”

 

“Good. Because I don’t want that flat-assed skank’s lips anywhere near you ever again,” Brian declared rather more loudly than needed since my head was only about three inches from his mouth. 

 

“Awww, Eggy, does that mean you intend to assert exclusive kissing rights to my lips?” I teased him.

 

“Actually . . . Yes. I do.”

 

That got my attention. I sat up, turning so I could look at him, because I didn’t want to misunderstand where this was going. I really had just been kidding about the exclusive lips thing. I mean, Eggy and I were just so NEW. I know I had been growing more and more serious about him the whole time - hell, I had even admitted to myself that I LOVED him, although I hadn’t yet been brave enough to say it out loud - but I hadn’t been sure Brian was there yet. However, it seemed that he’d got there somehow too. 

 

“Look, Justin, I want to be up front here. I have no idea where this thing between us is going. I’m still pretty fucked up - I know that - and I plan to work on it. But whatever we do have, it . . . It’s important . . . I don’t want to fuck it up. And I’ll understand if you’re not ready . . . It’s just that I really can’t stand the idea of you kissing that Ian guy . . . Or, any guy, really . . . And it’s not just that I don’t want their germs getting on your lips,” he said, trying to lighten the mood, although I could tell there was still a little bit of serious concern hidden in there. “Let’s face it, with me stuck inside here, and you out there, you have a lot more options than me. I’m okay with that. But even if you’re out fucking every other guy you see, I would still like it if this,” he leaned in and kissed me, gently, tenderly, with only a barely-there pressure, but so sweetly that I almost melted, “could be only for us.”

 

Did I say I ALMOST melted? Strike that. I COMPLETELY melted. Seriously, could this guy get any more amazing? He just basically told me he loved me, in his typical understated Eggy way. Fuck, I simply adored my hermit. So of course I immediately agreed, because I’m not a fucking moron here. Assuming I even wanted to kiss anyone other than Eggy - which, for the record, I didn’t - I’d happily give that up for the chance to cement things with Brian. Because I really DID love this man. I loved everything about him. And I especially loved the way he had been willing to fight even his most paralyzing fears to come save me from my father. So, fuck it all! He could have all my kisses forever. Not even a shred of a doubt about that.

 

“It’s a deal. From here on out, my lips belong only to you, Eggy. Now, come here, you big dork, and let me show you what I can do with them,” I ordered and pulled him down so I could deliver my lips to him immediately. 

  
  


So, yeah, that all happened more than a year ago, just before my twentieth birthday, although it feels like forever. Since then, things have gotten better and better. My life now is pretty much totally perfect, actually. And I owe it all to my Hairy Hermit.

 

Craig - I refused to call him my father after what he did - predictably followed through with his threat to disinherit me. Big whoop. He even tried to drain the funds from my education trust, but was stopped when I went to court and got an injunction against him. Those funds were deposited in the trust by my grandparents, not him, and even if he had put the money in, he couldn’t take it back out without incurring huge tax penalties, so when I threatened to report him to the IRS, he finally backed down. Which means I’m still okay on the money front for the time being and haven’t had to drop out of school. It’s hilarious though, because Craig really thought he was messing with some ‘pathetic little fairy’, but after I wiped the floor with him in court, he had no idea what hit him. Craig:0, Justin:1.

 

I’m almost finished with my junior year at TAIP. It’s going pretty well, to be honest. My grades are good and I’ve been recognized by several of my professors for my talent. My work has been included in several student showcases and I’ve even had a few feelers from local galleries about showing my work commercially. So, things are generally good on that front. 

 

The big news, though, is that I have now officially moved into the Triangle Building with Egbert. It happened little by little, all last spring, with me gradually staying over more nights out of every week until about June, when Daphne finally asked, if I wasn’t going to use my room anymore, could she let a girlfriend she worked with move in. I was a little worried about bringing the topic up with Brian, despite how well we were getting on, but he surprised me. He said he thought I already HAD moved in, seeing as all my clothing and art supplies had long since taken up residence in his guest room and my ass had formed a permanent dent in his mattress. After that I figured what the hell and just moved my few remaining personal possessions in for good. 

 

How’s that working, you ask? Actually, it’s not bad. Brian still has his fears and his rituals and some days are more difficult than others, but we deal with it. I’ve had to become much tidier than I ever was before; which isn’t a bad thing, to be honest. Once the meds kicked in, though, things got a lot better pretty damn quickly. Within just a couple months, his more serious panic attacks had abated and we started working on the Cognitive Behavioral Therapy stuff more diligently. By summer I was able to tempt him outside the building. By fall I had him in therapy with a friend of Marcy’s who specializes in OCD and Complex PTSD. And I know that OCD isn’t the kind of thing you ever just get over, but he’s learning ways to cope with the stressors that make it worse. Basically, there are more good days than bad days now, so I can’t complain. 

 

Strangely, it seemed like the confrontation with Craig was the turning point for Brian. Once he started therapy and became able to verbalize his feelings more easily, he explained that the experience had been remarkably freeing. He told me he was so proud of me for the way I’d stood up to my father; something he’d never been able to do where Donal was concerned. He was especially impressed with the fact I’d told Craig to fuck off; he said that had taken balls, and proven to him just how strong I was, despite the twinkie physique. And watching me, insisting I wouldn’t take shit or let myself be browbeaten into submission, inspired him to confront his own issues. Knowing he had braved those tunnels on his own and had mopped the floor with Craig’s ass didn’t hurt his self confidence either. 

 

So I guess me having to suffer through a third head injury in just over a month and becoming estranged from my father in the process was a good thing?

 

Anyway, we’ve come a long way since then. I have a gorgeous, intelligent, caring, boyfriend and we’re living together in his architecturally amazing building. I’ve got my art. He’s got his technical writing job, which I think is boring as shit, but which makes him pretty decent money without stressing him out from having to deal with people. 

 

We’ve even got plans for the future; namely, Eggy is gonna slowly start renovating the building and leasing out the lower floors to actual tenants. I promised him I would handle pretty much ALL the interaction with both the construction crews and the new tenants. I haven’t told him yet, but my long-term plan is to eventually remodel the entire building into a bed and breakfast-style hotel with a brewpub on the street level, conference/meeting rooms on the first floor and guest suites on the second through fifth floor. I’ve been working on the plans for how I want to decorate everything, including murals that I plan to paint throughout showing off the history of the building and the Golden Triangle area in general. It’s gonna be great. I know Brian will warm up to my ideas eventually. He’s always been unable to resist my charms, despite all my crazy ideas, poor guy. 

 

Oh, and did I mention the sex? There’s LOTS of it. Soooo much sex. Brian’s totally loosened up in that regard. He says that the same sense of inner strength he found after the fight with Craig, the one that let him finally take control of his agoraphobia, has also freed him up in the sex department. Thank the gay gods and everything that is fucking holy! But it’s true. He doesn’t even make me wear an extra condom when he fucks me these days. Progress, right? Of course, he still prefers that we shower immediately afterwards - because, OCD still - but that’s all good, because we usually get to have a second go round in the shower. So you’re not going to hear ME complaining. Yeah, this bottom boy is happily fulfilled. And Brian, whenever he gets the occasional itch, gets himself fulfilled too. *Wink!* It’s really all good. Okay, more than good. It’s fucking fabulous! Not that I’m bragging or anything.

 

Today, however, is the biggest test yet of all those good things that have happened to us over the past year. Today, I’m taking Eggy to meet the gang at the Liberty Diner. Did I say big? I meant huge. Can you just imagine all the mental preparation this took; he’s going out in public, having to meet a whole gaggle of new people who will probably want to touch him in some way - if I know Debbie, she’ll want to not only give him a bear hug, but probably kiss his cheek as well - and if that wasn’t enough, I’m going to try and get him to order something. Hell, it took me almost an hour just to get him out of the building, and I had to promise to pack the half dozen travel-packs of wet wipes he insisted we bring along ‘just in case’. But here we are, standing outside the Diner. Now, if I can just get him through the front door.

 

“You ready for this, Eggy?” I asked, his sweaty palm clenched tightly against my own.

 

I could tell from the rapid pace of his breathing and the way he was biting at his bottom lip that he was pretty agitated, but he had told me before that he really wanted this, so I was going to do whatever I could to make it happen. 

 

“I don’t know . . .” he muttered.

 

“You’ve got this, Brian. We’ve been planning this little lunch adventure for weeks. Your therapist thinks you’re ready for it. I think you’re ready for it. Even you said you were ready for it just yesterday. And you know it’s not going to be as difficult as you’re making it out to be in your head, right?” I reassured him, taking one more step closer to the entrance and pulling him along in my wake. “Besides, I’m going to be right there with you, so it’ll all be fine.”

 

He looked at me with so much trust just then that I thought I might fall in love with him all over again. “Okay. Just . . . don’t let go,” he ordered, giving my hand another squeeze. 

 

“I promise. I will never let go, Jack. I’ll never let go.”

 

Brian shook his head and laughed as he looked at me; the mood lightened just a little with my teasing. Brian swore he hated ‘Titanic’, but still always found the time to sit down and watch it with me. Which was sadly more often than I would like to admit. 

 

“You have watched that fucking movie enough to know that Rose lets go . . . It doesn’t matter how many times you watch it, the ending won’t change, as much as I know you would like it to.”

 

“Okay, alright. I get it.” I laughed along with him now. I love it when he teases me like this. 

 

“But I mean it, Justin . . . don’t let go.”

 

“I promise. I’m not letting go. I already told you that. And you know I’m tenacious as hell, so you can count on me.”

 

He nodded, straightening up his shoulders and standing as tall as he could, and then giving me a crooked little smile. Did I mention how much I adore that crooked little smile of his? If I hadn’t been on a mission just then, I would have gladly taken him aside and kissed the fuck out of him for that damned adorable smile. Just don’t tell HIM I was using the word ‘adorable’ in reference to him - even in my head - because that would be a whole other battle, and we didn’t have time for that. 

 

“Good. Now, let’s get this bread!” I voiced my battle cry as I pulled open the door and led my man inside to the tinkle of the bell over the entrance. 

 

“Justin! There you are, Sweetie!” Deb roared in greeting the second the door closed behind us. I could feel Brian tensing up and taking a step back as the red-wigged-wonder came barrelling towards us, her voice seemingly louder than ever. “And you finally brought your mysterious boyfriend too! Come here and let me get a good look at you, Stud.”

 

“Yes, Deb. This is HIM,” I started with the introductions. “Brian Kinney, meet Debbie Novotny. Deb is the manager of the Diner, my boss, and the self-appointed surrogate mother of all gay boys in the Pittsburgh Metropolitan Area.” Eggy already knew all that, of course, because I talked about these folks pretty much constantly, but I thought it was only polite to give Deb her official due. 

 

I could tell Debbie was just dying to sweep in, the way she usually did, and give both of us the full Novotny treatment, complete with rib-crushing bear hugs, smeared-lipstick kisses, and maybe even a pinch to a buttcheek here and there, but thankfully she restrained herself. I had warned her in advance - I’d warned EVERYBODY in advance - that Brian did not like to be touched by strangers, and threatened to break the fingers of anyone who tried it. Apparently, I’m scarier than I look, because even Debbie remembered and controlled herself. 

 

“Well, now. Aren’t you just the hottest thing this place has seen since the chili Raul concocted for the Pink Plate Special last week,” Deb summed up her appraisal of my boyfriend. “I can see why Sunshine’s fallen, hook, line and sinker, for a beauty like you, Brian!”

 

“Enh. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Deb. I’m only with him cuz he provides artistically-pleasing living accomodations.” Brian squeezed my hand and out of the corner of my eye I could see a small smile on his face, although I knew he’d probably make me pay for my bratiness later. “I AM an artist, after all. If anyone deserves to live in an architectural showplace like the Triangle Building, it’s me.”

 

“It’s nice to meet you, Debbie. Justin has told me all about you,” Brian interrupted, trying to be the responsible one, as always. 

 

“All true, I’m sure.” Deb laughed loudly then pointed us towards the big booth in the back corner. “Well, take a seat with the rest of the boys. They don’t bite . . . unless you ask them to, that is.”

 

We didn’t even make it all the way there, though, before the rest of my friends were on their feet to welcome us. They all had these stupidly big grins on their faces and it seemed like they were being on their best behavior - as I’d ordered - all except for Emmett. As soon as Emmett saw Brian his mouth fell open and he started fanning himself with his napkin. 

 

“Well, now, Baby! Don't I just want wanna spread you on a cracker and eat you for lunch,” Emmy Lou gushed.

 

I could feel myself rolling my eyes at my eccentric friend’s words. I knew Emmett would be instantly attracted to my man. Who wouldn’t? And that’s okay; he can look as long as he doesn’t touch. 

 

“Guys, this is Brian. Brian, this is Michael, Ted, and Emmett,” I explained, pointing to each one as I said their name. “Michael is Debbie’s son.”

 

“I thought you ALL were,” Brian teased. I could tell he was slightly nervous, but I was already so proud of him. He was cracking jokes and being his delightfully delicious self. 

 

“That’s true,” Michael laughed. “But I’m . . .”

 

“He’s the only one I pushed out of my vagina,” Debbie interjected, cracking up at her own joke and throwing a bunch of menus down onto the table. “Call me over when you boys are ready to order.”

 

Michael moved over to join Ted and Em on the far side of the booth, giving me and Brian room to slide in on the near side. I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, the way Brian very carefully did not touch anything, but I wasn’t going to give him a hard time about it seeing as he was actually doing really well. So far so good, right?

 

“Deb is EXACTLY the way you described her,” Brian commented with an amused smile aimed at the waitress’ back as she bustled around behind the counter and yelled obscenities at both the cook and the customers. 

 

“And you’re exactly the way Justin described you too,” Ted piped up, looking appreciatively at Brian from where he’d been shoved in the corner of the booth. “And here we all thought you were just making up this imaginary wonder of boyfriendly virtues.”

 

“Sorry to disappoint, Teddy, but it’s all true. He really is as gorgeous and smart as I told you,” I bragged, rightfully so. “Not to mention just as good in bed.”

 

“Ahem, Sunshine . . .” Brian elbowed me in the side, trying to shut me up, but no way was I gonna take back something that was true, even if I was embarrassing him. “So, you promised to buy me lunch, remember? Which is only fair after I’ve been supplying your bounteous bubble butt for all these months. It’s about time you started to pay me back a little.”

 

“As if you didn’t adore my bubble butt just the way it is,” I rejoined, picking up two of the menus waiting on the table and sliding one over till it was waiting on the table right in front of him.

 

As he looked down at the menu, I could feel Brian’s leg nervously bouncing up and down next to mine. I glanced over quickly and knew immediately what had set him off. I could just tell by looking at the laminated menu lying there that it was sticky and all kinds of gross. I didn’t want to embarrass him by handing him an antibacterial wipe in front of everyone, so instead I took charge, reaching into my bag where I’d stashed all his wipes and pulling out a whole packet. Then I grabbed his menu away from him and started cleaning it.

 

“Sorry about the menus being all disgusting, Brian. The breakfast crowd is known to get the syrup from their waffles practically everywhere. Usually when I’m working, I wipe them all down before I hand them out to customers, but sometimes a few get missed.” 

 

I efficiently cleaned off his menu, back and front, and then folded the wet wipe in half and used it to give the table a quick swab too. I didn’t care what the guys thought about ME being finicky or cleaning the table; if they gave me shit about it later, I’d just say something about not wanting my boyfriend to see what a greasy dump it was the first time he ate there. Besides, it really was a little gross having the menus covered with grime like that all the time. Now that I’d noticed it, I’d be cleaning them off more diligently in the future. 

 

After I stashed the dirty wipe in the pocket of my bag, I reached under the table and put my hand on Brian’s still-bouncing knee, feeling him calm down almost immediately, and knew we’d weathered that small crisis. No problemo! See, we could so do this going out to have lunch and meeting people thing. Piece of cake.

 

By the time we’d got the menus sorted out, Deb was back to take our order. She plunked down waters for everyone, pulled several pre-wrapped cutlery sets out of the pocket of her apron, licked the pencil she pulled out from behind her ear, and then started asking everyone what they wanted. I could tell Brian was inwardly cringing at pretty much everything he saw, and just dying to clean it all before it came into contact with his skin, but doing his best to resist the obsession at the same time. I was so fucking proud of him right then I could have crowed. My Hermit was being such a trooper. Nevertheless I grabbed his hand under the table and held on tight, just to let him know I had his back if he needed me. Our fingers interlocked tightly, as though he could feel my confidence radiating through, from my hand to his. 

 

Before our food came, the doorbell rang out again, and the next thing I knew, there were three more familiar faces hovering around out booth. 

 

“Hey, Brian,” Molly crooned, batting her eyes at my lover in her most coquettish, teenaged way. 

 

Mom and Molly had, of course, met Brian a long time before this. Mom wasn’t about to let me move in with someone she’d never even met, so Brian had bravely invited them over for dinner early on. He did remarkably okay with them around, even. I’d told Mom about the OCD thing right from the beginning, but she was okay with it. She said she’d rather have me living with a neat freak than a total slob, and I had to agree with her on that one. So, except for my idiot sister’s stupid crush on my boyfriend, it was all good. 

 

“Miss Molly. You’re looking lovelier than ever today,” Brian flirted right back with her, prompting me to punch his thigh under the cover of the table, because I’d warned him not to encourage her - she was fifteen years old and completely smitten with him - I mean, who can blame her, but it was a tad bit annoying.

 

“Hello, Honey,” Mom interrupted the flirt-fest with an apologetic shake of her head and a side eye for her incorrigible daughter. “Brian. I hope you don’t mind - I ran into Daphne at the Heinz History Center this morning and she said she was meeting you two here for lunch, so I thought we might join you. If we’re not imposing too much.”

 

“Of course not. You’re always welcome, Jennifer.” Did I mention that Brian had won Mom over pretty much from the get go with his elegant manners and oozing charm? Yeah, he had all the members of the Taylor family enthralled. Well, the members that count, that is. 

 

“Yeah, I stopped into the museum to check out the newest installation - featuring a piece by none other than my best friend in the whole wide world - and found your mom there doing the same thing,” Daphne explained as she climbed into the empty booth behind us and then draped herself over the intervening seat back so she could glom all over me and kiss my cheek with a loud smacking noise. “I know I already saw the painting way back when you first did it, but I gotta say it looks even better now that it’s in a fancy pants museum.”

 

Oh, yeah. I forgot to add that the piece I’d done for my Art and Architecture class all those months ago - the one that had started it all - was currently being exhibited by the Heinz Museum in a show they were doing on the history of the Golden Triangle. Can you believe it? Yeah, seems like Mayor Peduto had been a guest at the TAIP Spring Student Art Show and had seen the work I’d created with all the historical references to the Triangle Building incorporated into the multimedia piece and had loved it. So, thanks to the Mayor's intervention, I’d been given a spot in the new Heinz exhibit. Quite the coup for an aspiring artist, wouldn’t you say? 

 

“It truly is a lovely piece, Justin. The way you incorporated all those photos and found our objects and quotes into the painting, was inspired,” my mother commented boastfully. “And the write up the curators did connecting the picture to the Journal you found, really brought the exhibit to life.”

 

I had Brian to thank for that little twist. After my piece had been accepted by the museum, it was Brian who’d thought about including the Journal and told the curator about the secret love story that had inspired my creation. So now all of Pittsburgh knew about the gay love triangle that had almost brought down two of the City’s most prominent families. 

 

It’s kinda fitting, don’t you think, seeing as it was Billy’s story that tied everything together. 

 

And as I looked around me at the circle of family and friends who had come together this afternoon to welcome a new member into their tribe, I admit I might have got a little misty. Because, just look at all the support and love Brian and I had. All these people accepted us for who we were. We weren’t being vilified for loving the wrong person or the wrong gender. We were celebrated for it.

 

And no, not everyone was as accepting as this bunch. There were still bad people in the world. There were still bigots and homophobes, like my father, who would never understand. But little by little, in increments almost too small to measure, the world HAD changed for the better since Billy’s time. And thankfully, Brian and I were lucky enough to live in an era where we didn’t have to sneak around, building underground tunnels and hiding ourselves away. We were lucky enough to be afforded the luxury of loving each other openly, without fear of recrimination or punishment.

 

So was it any wonder that, as I sat there contemplating the bounty of support around me, I felt a little guilty? Brian and I had so much. And we owed all of it to the shadowy historical figures who had brought us together - Peebles, with his inspired architecture and resourcefulness, Billy, the gay youngling just trying to find his place in a world that ended up ostracizing him for his sexuality, and Jay, the epitome of the closeted gay man who was trapped by convention. Three men who’d never had a chance to live their reality the way Brian and I were, solely because being gay in 1885 was unacceptable. The difference between the endings of my story, and that of poor Billy Carnegie, really made you think, you know?

 

Of course there was one thing that hadn’t changed; the brick bastion known as the Triangle Building was still standing proudly, gracing Liberty Avenue with its elegant presence, more than a hundred years later. And it was still a drawing in overly-romantic gay boys eager to unearth its mysterious attractions. First Billy, now me. Somehow we’d both found love in those walls. So maybe I was wrong. Maybe the world hadn’t really changed all that much after all?

  
  


“Hey, you,” Eggy leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Did I lose you? Come on, Sunshine, you can’t zone out and just leave me hanging with all your crazy friends. You’re the one who wants us to all live together, Kumbaya, happily-ever-after, and all that shit. If you want your happy ending, you gotta help me out here.” 

 

And when Brian punctuated his demand with a completely spontaneous kiss to my cheek, I knew it was true. I’d found my happy ending. All thanks to that mysterious, triangular-shaped building and the Hairy Hermit inside . . . who I just couldn’t stay away from. 

**********  
  
Chapter Music Selection - [Happy Ending by Mika](https://youtu.be/vzoYgasvKdo).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7/13/19 - It’s done! Hoorah! Another successful NaNoWriMo project is completed! Hope you all like happy endings. Huge thanks go out to our readers and reviewers, who kept us motivated. Thanks also to Kari, aka TrueIllusion, who was a regular visitor to the working doc and saved us from many a typo. We’ve been talking over publishing this story, just like we did with Time Blitz, so if you are inclined to own an official copy of one of our stories, that should be coming up on the horizon soon. Now, what should we write next . . . TAG & Sally!

**Author's Note:**

> 11/5/18 - Welcome to our NaNoWriMo2018 story. Last year’s story ended up being a smashing success and resulted in Sally & I publishing our very first novel. We’re hoping to duplicate that feat again this year. As usual, we are writing the story online and we welcome any and all visitors who want to come by and keep us company as we write. We also love help with catching typos, filling in words when we get stuck, and offering ideas where you will. If you want to join in the fun, we put the link at the bottom of the chapter. Hope to see you there. TAG & Sally!
> 
> PS - extra bonus points for anyone who can figure out why we picked this particular building to use in our story...


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